


hell is where i dreamt of you and woke up alone

by whatliesabove



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: But mostly confusion, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Lots of that, Misconceptions and misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14781596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatliesabove/pseuds/whatliesabove
Summary: There’s no self help guide for this, absolutely no script to follow. There’s noWhat To Do When You Think You’ve Knocked Up Your Platonic Skating Partner After A Night You Might’ve Spent Together But You Can’t Rememberbook he can just run off and purchase at the nearest corner store.It’d be one hell of a help if there was, though.--Alternatively titled: Scott Moir and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad (Good) Whiskey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this maybe a month and a half ago, but only recently had time to actually sit down and work more on it. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but since it's my first multi-chapter for these two, I'm actually pretty okay with where it's at.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy and I'd love to hear your thoughts :) xx

The first thing Scott’s hit with as he rouses slowly into consciousness is an ache in his head, one that evolves pretty quickly from a dull throb to an intense pounding. The second is the sudden blinding awareness of the sun; his eyes are screwed shut, but the brightness behind them tells him that it is, in fact, morning and he is facing the window. Remaining still lessens the pounding of his head but does nothing to stop the daylight from paining his sensitive eyes, and so he chances angering the already full-blown headache in order to thwart the beginnings of another one.

With the sun now beating down on his back, he gives himself one, two, three minutes and then he forces his eyes open. Blinking is a challenge but he gets through it, and then he stretches his stiffened legs into the mattress.

_God_ , this is rough. Last night’s Scott, the bastard, did nothing to help this morning’s Scott. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he swipes roughly at his eyes and lets out a low groan. There’s a travel sized tube of ibuprofen and a bottle of water on the bedside table and he fights the urge to fist pump in celebration, if only because the jerky motion will rattle his brain. He exhales his appreciation instead, popping two of them into his mouth.

Today’s going to be painful, but it’s not all bad.

They just won the Olympics. Again. After executing a two year comeback plan, long hours, and blood, sweat and tears (quite literally), they  _actually_  won. A wide smile curls at his mouth and he covers his face with his hands.

He wants to say he can’t believe it but that’s a lie. He  _can_  believe it because they worked their asses off for this moment, sacrificed their social and personal lives for this moment, and they damn sure deserve it. Vancouver was a dream come true for the both of them, Sochi was nothing short of an odd kind of learning experience pre-packaged as a nightmare, and Pyeongchang is… everything and more. As much as they trained for this gold, as badly as they wanted it, they skated solely for themselves out on that ice and it made all the difference.

Pyeongchang is everything; the perfect book-end.

Tessa’s face during the medal ceremony, the smile she couldn’t seem to contain and the elated tears that welled in her eyes, spilled onto her cheeks, and  _god_  that laugh-cry noise she makes that’s pure music to his ears… everything he’s done to get to this moment was worth it.

Seeing Tessa that happy just—

It’s then that he’s hit with a startling third realization of the morning: he’s alone. His bed is empty, save for himself and his Canada jacket that’s crumpled near the wall. There are no signs of anything being out of place. This is good, except there’s also no sign of Tessa which, his gut tells him—for reasons he’s still trying to work through—is bad.

Applying pressure to the bridge of his nose, Scott wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth (he breathes into his cupped palms and the combination of morning breath and lingering booze is  _not_  pleasant), all the while wracking his brain, willing it to work through the throbbing.

They win the Olympics, Scott wakes up alone with a feeling that he shouldn’t have, and now here he is, trying to fill in the missing pieces.

Things he knows for certain: the group of them, Team Canada, celebrated after the medal ceremony. Chiddy was the first one to buy him a drink, which he remembers because he’d made a teasing quip about taking him out to dinner first.

Glancing at the clock, he sighs. It’s a little after 8:00, which means it’s highly likely that the rest of the team is already at breakfast. Or, of course, sleeping off a hangover much like the one he’s sporting this lovely morning.  

It’s a toss-up; he's just glad he's more prone to headaches than vomiting. 

As he’s throwing on a pair of jeans and one of his many Canada-themed shirts to represent, things start flooding back in short bursts. The team celebration, Scott handing Tessa a drink and her appreciative smile, followed immediately by the thrumming of his heart at the sight of it. That’s right; Scott switched from beer to liquor (a rookie move, of which he knows better, but they had the  _good_  Whiskey and he knew he couldn’t resist, knew he was ruined for the rest of the night right then), but Tessa stuck to vodka sodas.

Were there shots? He thinks there were shots, which would also account for why his skull feels abnormally shitty right now. Yes, there were definitely shots. 

Scott can party with the best of them; he’s had many years of practice, he can hold his alcohol extremely well, and he’s generally the one to outlast everyone else. But sometimes, he’ll admit, he can go a bit overboard (and he’d say winning gold qualifies as a pretty justifiable reason to go a little harder than usual) and then this happens—dizzying blanks in his memory.

The whole thing strikes him as odd, really, because it’s never due to the fact that he’s blackout drunk. No, in the moment he’s always pleasantly buzzed and high off of the adrenaline, completely in control of his faculties (again, he's been building up his tolerance for years), even if he is a little louder and a lot more boisterous. You know, like when you're totally aware that you're laughing louder than anyone else but you've got such a rush that you don't care enough to tone it down? It's like that. Everything’s there, memories and complete awareness tucked safely where they should be—until he goes to sleep, and then it’s as if it’s just wiped retroactively, the excess alcohol pouring in like rain and washing spots away.

In the past, though, he hasn’t felt this... strange. The blanks have always consisted of his own embarrassing actions—which he learns through secondhand stories from his friends later—and the loss of those particular memories never weigh quite so heavily. This feels different, like there’s more. 

A flash of Tessa’s hand on his bicep, her voice echoing sentiments like  _yes_ , he deserves to let loose but yes, he should probably also slow down. He doesn’t think she had any shots, but he doesn’t remember.

8:17am. 

He’ll lay in bed for ten minutes, on  _top_ of the blankets so he doesn’t get too comfortable, and then he’ll find the others. That’s reasonable; at least he’s dressed.

It only takes a few seconds after he settles back, head on the pillows and eyes closed, for more images to rush in. Except these aren’t from the celebration, no, they’re from afterwards, and he immediately shoots right back into a sitting position.

_Fuck_.

Tessa’s laughter ringing in his ears, her hand clasped in his own as they traipse through the hallway. He vaguely remembers asking her, back at the party, if she wanted to get out of there; winning is thrilling but the intensity of the aftermath and the crowds of well-wishers can be overwhelming for the both of them. 

They were in her room.

That's where the holes are then, the memories hazier. It’s like they were cut and edited, slapped together out of order and made into jagged puzzle pieces that don’t fit quite right.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” he groans to himself, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes.

No. Right?

There’s the two of them kissing, his hands on her waist, her delicate fingers caressing his face. Those eyes of hers, big and beautiful and  _so green_ —have they always been that bright?—staring right back at him, so close. He’s on the edge of bed and she’s in front of him, pulling at the fabric of his shirt? Pulling him closer? He can't tell.

Scott slams his eyes closed as tightly as he can, tries to… rearrange or replay or  _something_ , anything that’ll fill him in on what happened last night before he loses his mind. 

It’s what he would do when he was a kid and he wanted to switch the images in his dreams or try to get back into one after waking up; just blink and concentrate. He’s pretty sure Tessa’s the one who told him about that—one of the first things she willingly said to him after they were partnered up, her voice so quiet and small that he almost misheard her. Not wanting to make her feel embarrassed for sharing something (as odd as it sounded at the time), he told her that yes he did the same thing. It was a lie, he never did, but that night he tried it. He doesn’t remember if it actually worked or not.

It’s not working  _now_ , though, which is frustrating and does nothing to help the increasing race of his heart. Because everything he can remember, foggy and incomplete as it is, points to sleeping with Tessa. But he couldn’t have slept with Tessa because he’d remember that, right? Choppy memories be damned, if he’d had sex with Tessa he’d  _remember_.

Yeah, he’d remember.

But what if he did and he doesn’t. He absolutely does not want to be that guy, and he wants nothing less than being that guy with  _Tess_. Because if they slept together he knows damn sure that he knew  _exactly_  what he was doing last night, and she'd know that, wouldn't go along otherwise; his nonchalance now would make it seem like he's just brushing her, and what they did, off. It'd make him seem like an asshole, and the thought alone makes him nauseous.

Right now it's looking very much like something felt off when he woke up alone because he wasn’t alone when he went to bed. Tessa being nowhere in sight left a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach because she spent the night with him and is now gone. The thought of her leaving in the middle of the night is almost worse than not remembering anything at all.

Unless his brain is making all of this up, completely tricking him in his alcohol-induced stupor to believe something that’s false. Untrue. A fabrication of his own mind.  

Okay, Scotty,  _think_.

It’d be much easier if he could just text her, settle this maybe-situation quickly, but that’s a whole other undertaking he doesn’t even want to think about.  _Hey, T, by any chance did we have sex last night?_  No, yeah, absolutely not.

Things pointing towards sex with Tessa: (1) these memories, though their reliability is questionable; (2) the pills and water on his bedside table—that’s 100% a Tessa thing because he never thinks ahead to take care of his hungover self, which means that at some point she  _was_  in this room; (3) … there doesn’t seem to be a three, but one and two are pretty compelling on their own.

Twisting his head, he looks at the clock again. 8:31am. Shit. He hadn’t meant to spend this long trying to figure out... all of this. Reaching over, he grabs his phone from where it’s charging (did he plug that in last night?) and squints at the too-bright screen.

There’s a text from Tessa, sent about an hour and a half ago.

_Thought sleeping in a little would do you some good. We’re at breakfast when you wake up._ There’s a smiley emoji at the end and the name of the little café down the street that they’ve been meaning to stop into but haven’t yet had a chance to.

Things pointing towards no sex with Tessa: (1) nothing seems amiss with her texts. She doesn’t generally use emojis when she’s upset with him—actually, she pointedly  _doesn’t_  use them when she’s mad because that’s her (adorable, if he’s honest) way of alerting him to her displeasure. Her little"I’m not ready to talk about it yet but I want you to know that I’m upset so you’re not caught off guard when I am"; (2) he vividly remembers it being  _her_  room they went to after leaving the others and now he’s woken up here, in his room; and (3) he was totally dressed upon waking up. This one's a weaker point, because of course he could've gotten dressed after, but it's something.

The most telling, though: surely, if they  _did_  sleep together and then something caused her to sneak out in the middle of the night (he doesn’t want to entertain any of the possibilities, any and all of the things that could have gone through her mind and resulted in Tessa deciding that she didn’t want to be here when he woke up), she wouldn’t be sending him a smiley face emoji.

Right?

Scott laughs a little; Tess would be so impressed with his mental lists right now. She's always trying to get him to write things down, to make lists to work through stuff, and he's finally (kind of) taking her advice.

Shaking his head, he does his damndest to put it all to the side and focus on… literally anything else. The flashes of Tessa’s face so close to his and the feel of her lips sliding across his own will just have to wait. They won’t go away—now that they’re here he thinks, a bit regretfully because he doesn’t know what they  _mean_ , they’ll stick around. 

But he’s practically a master at putting all of his feelings for her on the back-burner, kept in hidden, far away sections of his mind. He’s been doing it for years now; he can do it for a few more hours, or however long it takes to figure it all out.

_I’m on my way._

* * *

Tessa doesn’t say a thing.

Actually, no, that’s a lie; she says many things. She asks him how he’s feeling and if there’s anything she can get him (after ordering for him, eggs and bacon and toast); she beams just as brightly as she did last night about how overwhelmed she is, how in awe she is of how much support they’ve gotten thus far, how they  _really did it, didn’t they?_ ; she talks to him about all of the interviews they’ll have to do and potential brand deals and  _there’s just so much to think about, Scott_.

She greets him with a wide smile and a squeeze of the hand when he sidles up beside her in the booth, but she doesn’t say a damn thing about last night.

He tries to subtly feel for details.

“Don’t take this as an admission of defeat or anything, but I think I had one too many last night,” he says with an exaggerated groan. Chiddy and the others echo the sentiment and though it’s not the response he’s looking for, he’s grateful he’s not the only one feeling the effects. Truthfully, he looks in better shape than the others and he wonders idly how much longer they went on after he and Tess left the group. “Why’d you let me do that, T?”

Tessa laughs. “I  _told_  you to slow down,” she points out with a perfectly arched brow and a smirk, and yes, he knows.  _That_  he remembers; it’s everything else that’s screwing him up. She gestures to his plate before her hand lands on his kneecap. “Eat your eggs, it’ll help.”

Save for just flat out asking if she was in his room last night, which he can’t do right now at a table with half of Team Canada within earshot, he’s got nothing else.

Tessa’s attention turns back to what’s got to be her second or third coffee and he picks his fork back up, finishes off his eggs.

(She’s right—it helps.)

* * *

By the time they return to Canada, Scott’s nearly convinced everything he’s remembered about that night was just a fever dream, an alcohol-clouded illusion. The memories (if he can even call them that at this point), the pills and water bottle—they mean nothing because Tessa hasn’t brought any of it up.

And so he lets it go.

Tessa hasn’t been acting strangely, there’s been minimal to no change in their interactions (which he attributes mostly to his confused and slightly awkward contributions to conversation because  _he’s_  still a little thrown off), and she hasn’t alluded to there being any ill-feelings or an elephant in the room.

Scott’s not going to be the one to bring it up. If he did, there are only two ways it could go: his brain did, in fact, manufacture everything about the two of them spending the night together. He’ll bring it up to Tessa and she’ll look at him like he’s certifiably insane and the floor won’t be able to open up and swallow him fast enough.

Perhaps it isn’t a fabrication, they  _did_  have sex, and Tessa’s silence is her way of choosing to ignore it. He’ll bring it up and she’ll have to tell him (in her sweet, considerate Tessa way) that it was great (because he can’t imagine it being anything less than spectacular) but they should just carry on as they are now. Or even  _worse_ , she hasn’t said a thing because she regrets it. He’d choose being rejected a million times over if it meant that Tessa never has to be in that position.

It’s settled then.

Based on fairly inconclusive evidence, and for the sake of his own sanity, Scott remains steadfastly in the camp of I Did Not Have Sex With Tessa Virtue.


	2. Chapter 2

He can’t remember a time in his life when the familiar chill of the rink has ever been that far removed. First he had hockey and then he had Tessa and ice dance, and it’s as if the entirety of his thirty years have been spent in a rink. Even in between competition seasons, and sometimes during vacations, they’d both find themselves standing with their skates in their hands, the ice a vast expanse in front of them.

He remembers one year when they were first starting out in Canton; things were intense with Marina, school was getting in the way, and their parents were worried they weren’t holding up their entire end of the bargain. They were there to train, sure, but they had to keep up with their schooling if they were going to be allowed to remain in the States, so far away from their families. 

Their parents talked to their host families and they were told to stay off of the ice for one week. One week, spend their usual training hours studying and getting back on track, and that’s it.

They made it two days before Scott was calling Tessa and asking if she wanted to sneak out and get into the rink.

(This happened every day that week, of course, but they managed to avoid getting caught  _and_  to put some more effort into their school work.

Well, Tessa did, but he suspects she was never really the problem.)

Now he’s back on the ice, a little renewed and not quite all that refreshed after the whirlwind of chaos following the Olympics. After Vancouver he remembers the excitement of it all going on much longer than the barely two month mark they're at now, but surely people will get bored of them soon enough.

Japan’s Stars on Ice is approaching and their routine needs a little more polishing before they take it overseas, which is what calls them here so early on a Saturday morning. It comes as no surprise that he's the first one to arrive, a little earlier than their scheduled ice time, and Tessa trudges through the doors perfectly on time.

In their younger days, despite his affinity and her disdain for early mornings, it was always he who was running late. A minute here, five there. Until he got his license and started picking up Tess, who was very adamant that they work on his punctuality.

Scott senses her arrival before he sees her, his head automatically lifting as she makes her way towards the bench. The darkness beneath her eyes tell him she's gotten maybe four hours of sleep; her skin’s a little paler than usual and her hair’s thrown into a messy bun, but he likes this Tessa. Not sleep deprived Tessa, no, but fresh, bare-faced Tessa. She doesn't let many people see her like this, and it's taken a long while but he finally understands (and appreciates) what it means that he's included in the short-list.

Scott smiles. "Morning, sunshine."

"Morning," Tessa murmurs with a little laugh, the corners of her mouth curling upwards despite how much he knows she'd rather be asleep. "I'll go put my stuff in the locker room and then we can get started."

She's back in five minutes, skates on her feet and hair readjusted into a proper pony-tail. Balancing on one leg she removes her skate guards with practiced ease, places them onto the boards, and takes the hand he offers without a second thought. Together they glide onto the ice and do a few warm-up laps around the rink, his hand squeezing hers every so often, hers squeezing back in response.

They've nailed this choreography off the ice and it's pretty damn good on the ice too, at least as far as he’s concerned, but he knows there are bits Tessa's still unsure about.

He just nods along and agrees to go over the same sections a few extra times until she's pleased. It used to annoy him, her perfectionist tendencies and constant need to redo what he believed to be something they already had down. He'd grunt and sigh and mumble under his breath, even snapped at her one time when they were 15 and 17 and she'd asked to practice that one lift  _again_ , but then she had teared up (and did her damndest to hide it behind a pursed lip, of course) and he felt like an asshole.

Eventually, he just got used to it.

That's just Tessa, and now it's one of the things he loves most about her. It's a huge part of what makes their programs what they are, what makes them as  _good_  as they are.

They manage more than a few run-throughs of the Michael Jackson number, tweaking a couple of things here and there, and Tessa gets progressively slower with each go at it. It's barely noticeable and if it were anyone else he's sure they wouldn't notice. She's still giving her all, pushing on, but by the third hour he can tell something's up.

"You okay, T?" he asks, his palm warm against the small of her back as he slows them to a stop.

Her eyes find his, voice breathy when she speaks. "What? Yeah, good."

He'd probably believe her too, believe the too-wide smile plastered on her face, if he didn't know her as well as he does. As such, he quirks a brow and gives her that  _you know you can’t use that media smile on me, Tess_  look and squeezes her arm.

"Come on," he needles, keeps his grip on her light as he skates around so he's in front, facing her. "We both know that's not true. What's up?"

Tessa huffs out a breath, hunches over a little so her hands are resting on her thighs. Her eyes close for all of ten seconds before they peel back open, lift to look at him from beneath her lashes.

"Seriously, Scott, I'm fine. Just tired," she promises, straightening back up. "Didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

The closer he looks the more he notices the weariness embedded deep in her skin, the puffiness that’s taken up residence beneath her usually bright eyes. Scott thinks maybe it should alarm him that he’s memorized her every facial feature, every freckle, every line, so much so that he can tell when something’s out of place. 

It doesn’t. 

"Any reason?" 

Shrugging, she begins skating towards the boards. He follows.

"Not really," she sighs. "Just a bad night, I guess."

Exhaustion gets the better of both of them—it’s inevitable and practically unavoidable with their schedules—but she’s generally the better of the two at keeping it hidden. Most times, even around him, she maintains her energy and gives everything she has as if she’s not ready to collapse onto her bed. Rarely does she allow it to visibly show on her face and in the way she carries herself, and licks of concern bubble up despite how he tries to tame it. 

Restlessness is something she’s always had periodic problems with, but it nags at him regardless when she’s not feeling her best. 

"Stop that."

His eyes fly to hers, wide. "What?"

" _That_ ," she repeats, gesturing vaguely to his face. There's no annoyance in her tone, though, and a small grin plays on her lips. "Looking at me like I'm dying. I'll get some sleep tonight and be good as new."

Scott doesn't say anything right away, just gives a sheepish little laugh and rubs at the back of his neck with his hand. Some (okay, _many_ ) have laughed throughout the years at how concerned he gets when it comes to Tess, called him "overly protective"—and maybe he is, but he just calls it being an attentive, caring best friend. He won't apologize for that.

“Just trying to make sure you’re alright, kiddo.”

Her face softens. "I know. I'm going to get some water."

Tessa pats his bicep twice, tightening her grip for the smallest fraction of a second before she skates past him, leaves the ice and heads in the direction of the lockers. Halfway there, she turns to look over her shoulder and calls out, "you want anything?"

"A burger and some fries?" he yells back, grinning at the playful roll of her eyes he doesn't need to see clearly to know is being directed his way.

" _Later_."

He can do later. They can go out and indulge in a cheat meal (they just won the Olympics, they’re more than entitled to some burgers and fries) and then he'll make sure Tessa's back in her apartment well before 9:00, fed and ready to get some much needed sleep.

* * *

Later turns out to be much later, after a few more hours of both skating and gym time. He's definitely worked up a monster of an appetite and he'd bet that Tess has too.

“So… burgers?” he asks as they sit side by side in the locker room, untying their laces. 

Tessa huffs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love it,” he tosses back, sing-song, leaning over to nudge her with his entire body. “Come on, T, when was the last time we had a good burger?”

Twisting her head, she eyes him. “The night of our win when you asked me almost that  _exact_ question and then bribed someone to go out and find us some,” she says, deadpan.

He splutters a bit, unsure of what to say to that because he’s surprised by both Tessa bringing up that night  _and_  the fact that he doesn’t remember eating burgers. Was that before or after the shots? He’d wager after since he’d probably remember if it were before.

“Come on,” he hears, and when he blinks and looks up again, Tessa’s standing with her bag slung over her shoulder. She extends a hand, waves it around for emphasis. “You’ve got that blank ‘if I don’t get some food right now I’m going to die’ look, and I’d really hate it if I had to explain to Marie-France and Patch why I’m now a singles skater.”

He completely disregards her misinterpretation of his shock and barks out a laugh, lets his mouth drop open in mock-indignation. Sassy, humorous Tess is probably his favorite Tess. 

(Scott will, and does, actively say this about every single facet of Tessa.)

“Your concern for my well-being is just  _so_  endearing.”

Standing, he hoists his bag over his shoulder and takes her hand. Tessa chuckles, the sound soothing to his core, and he lets his thumb caress the smooth patch of skin between her thumb and forefinger.

“A singles skater,  _really_ ,” he mutters in a whisper as they head into the parking lot.

* * *

Shuffling into one of the open tables, Scott grabs the menus from the centerpiece and hands one over. From the rink they both went home to drop off their cars, deciding instead that since they’ve settled on a bar that’s not too far from either of their respective places, they’d just walk and meet there. It saves them the trouble of dealing with two separate cars, especially if either of them have more than a few drinks.

Tessa doesn't seem to mind the low-key meal, eyes nearly glazing over when her burger's placed in front of her.

Scott laughs. "And I’m the one who was going to die if I didn’t get food immediately?”

“Shut up.”

“Might swallow your fingers too if you're not careful."

She makes a little noise of amusement, cheeks turning a light shade of pink as she covers her mouth with her hand. Scott takes a bite of his own burger and he can’t even fault Tess for her fervor because it’s  _delicious_.

"Seriously, you okay?" he asks, nursing his second beer. Tessa ordered a vodka tonic but so far it remains untouched to her right, all of her attention on the actual meal.

"Of course," she says, her voice light, a little humor to it as if it's the most ridiculous question he could’ve asked. "I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Do you remember how we used to get after practice all those years ago?"

Oh, he does. They were teenagers and absolute savages when they'd get to indulge themselves in these cheat meals during training. Completely ravenous. He's not proud of the things those restaurants had to see, and he’s fairly certain they’ve scarred a few people.

Who knew two tiny teenagers could eat that much?

"I do," he nods with grin. "I'm almost positive those waitresses thought we hadn't been fed in  _months_."

"I don’t know, I'm sure they got a bunch of teenage customers."

"Teenage customers, sure, Tess. But teenage figure skaters who hadn't allowed themselves to eat french fries in months?" He looks at her, flashes of a fifteen year old Tessa sitting across from him flooding his vision and warming his insides. "We were one of a kind."

Tessa, now plucking a few fries from her plate and biting at them one by one, beams over at him. Her smile's wide, white teeth on display.

"Oh we're  _definitely_ one of a kind."

* * *

By 7:30, both fed and no longer content to just hang out in the bar, they make their way back onto the streets. The sun's gone down and with it brought a chill to the air; Scott pulls her into his side when he sees her shiver out of the corner of his eye, locks their arms together and rubs at her exposed skin with his palm.

"You want to come back for a bit and watch a movie?" she asks when they're already halfway to her apartment.

That’s not new, though. Scott always walks back with her even if he's not going inside, just for the fresh air and to make sure she makes it there okay. Especially when they walk, don't drive.

"I'm an adult, you know," she had teasingly said the first time he did it, brought her door to door like some sort of escort service.

"It's dark," he'd shrugged in response. "Friends make sure friends get home okay, T. It's in the friendship handbook, read up."

She'd laughed and nodded,  _friendship handbook, got it_ , giving an exaggerated wave as she disappeared into her apartment.

Now it's just a habit, one he's not in any rush to break.

* * *

Back at Tessa's, Scott follows her through the door (closing it as he always does when she enters first, leaving it open for him to trail behind) and into the living room, disposing of his jacket over the side of one of the chairs.

"I'm going to go change," she calls over her shoulder.

He wanders comfortably into her kitchen and rummages through her cabinet for two mugs, throws a teabag into each, and puts the water on to boil. This Sleepytime Tea is decaffeinated and it won't keep her up—it  _is_  called Sleepytime, after all, so hopefully it lives up to its name and helps her get some much deserved rest.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, as is the hand on his shoulder where her touch burns his skin. "I didn't ask you over to put you to work," she chuckles.

Grabbing the now-finished tea, he spins and offers one of the mugs. "Tea," he says unnecessarily. She's traded her athletic-wear for a matching pajama set, shorts and button-up short sleeves with a floral print. "I haven’t tried this kind, but tea helps me wind down sometimes."

Tessa's gaze remains on the mug in his grip, steam rising from the surface, before her eyes trail up to his. "Thank you," she murmurs. "That's sweet."

She shoots him a smile and takes her tea, maneuvering around him to grab a bag of popcorn from the counter before leaving the kitchen.

“Are you gonna share this time?" 

Rolling her eyes, she settles into the couch. "Maybe. Now come on," she calls as he continues to stand there, she herself already curling into the corner. "We have to pick a movie."

Scott puts his mug on the coffee table and sits down next to her, waiting all of fifteen seconds before she's leaning against his side instead of the arm of the couch.

It's just how they watch movies; it's more comfortable this way. Sometimes he thinks idly about how this isn't exactly normal, how close they are, how much they wrap themselves up in each other for two people who aren't in a romantic relationship. But then he pushes those thoughts back because, hell, when have they ever been normal?

They've always been  _them_ , and it's why they've worked.

"Fine," he says, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and tugging her closer. "But I'm not watching  _The Sound of Music_  again."

(They both know he’d sit through the whole film with a genuine smile if she wanted to.)

* * *

They settle on Horrible Bosses, a movie Scott's seen but Tessa hasn't, due much in part to his claims that it’s hilarious and she should expand her movie horizon. He’s not sure if she’s laughing because she’s shocked or because she finds it as funny as he does, but he revels in the sound anyway.

"Oh my  _god_ ," she gasps during one scene in particular, the gang of men having accidentally hired a fetishist on Craigslist instead of a hit-man. "Scott, that's... horrible."

"It is called  _Horrible_  Bosses, Tess."

She shakes her head, eyes closed as she makes an exaggerated groaning noise. "No. That's just gross."

"Don't go onto Craigslist for any of your murderous needs and you should be good.”

"Thanks for the advice; I was  _just_ about to do that." Pausing for a moment, she turns her head to look up at him. "If you were trying to have someone killed, who would you call?"

He's quiet for a moment and then, "You."

Eyebrows raised, she blinks. "Me?" she repeats. "Because I'd be your co-hit-woman?"

Scott laughs, the vibrations buzzing against her chest. "No, because you'd be the one to keep me from doing stupid shit like that."

"That’s fair," Tessa hums. "I  _would_ be pretty sad if you were shipped off to prison."

"Just pretty sad?" he hedges, batting his eyelashes.

"Can't ice dance from prison," she says matter-of-factly, the smile she tries to hide curling at her lips anyway. "Canada would be devastated."

He lets out a heavy sigh. "Well, certainly can't disappoint all of Canada now, eh? Suppose I won't get sent off to prison."

Tessa huddles closer, content. "Good."

* * *

By the time the movie's over Tessa's head is lolled against his chest, her breathing evened out. He's pretty sure she fell asleep about thirty minutes ago, if the increasing weight against his body and the lack of amused snorts were any indication, but he didn't have the heart to wake her.

Now, though, he has to. He’s not going to make her sleep on her couch.

"Tess," he whispers, rubbing at her shoulder gently. "Time to wake up."

She makes a noise but doesn't budge, instead scrunches her nose in a way that makes her look sixteen again. 

Trying once more, he runs his hand along her arm.

"Tessa. Come on, the movie's over."

Rolling her head a little, her eyes peel open, blinking until they focus on him. "Scott?"

"Yeah, it's me.” Pulling from her wrist, he helps her into a sitting position. "Fell asleep on me there."

She huffs a laugh and stretches her back. "Sorry. We can finish it next time?"

"It's a deal.” For a few seconds he just stares at her, watches as she rubs at her eyes and slowly begins waking back up. He hopes she'll be able to fall asleep again. "I should head out."

Tessa glances up. "Just stay," she says easily, leaning across for the remote on the coffee table to turn off the TV. "It's late."

"I'm an adult, you know," he retorts, using the same line she'd used on him all those months ago.

She recognizes it and smirks. "And I'm just making sure my friend gets home all right. Following that handbook and all."

"Technically if I stay I won't be getting home at all."

"You're impossible." Tessa stands from the couch and starts towards the kitchen, both mugs in tow. "Really, it's dark and you don’t have your car. You shouldn’t walk back to your apartment right now."

He hears the clinking of glasses as she puts them into the sink, rinsing them out even though he knows she’ll put them in the dish washer tomorrow morning. Thinking it over (for a second, because he’s tired too and going out into the cold night air doesn’t sound all that appealing right now), he nods even though she can't see him.

"Thanks, T."

When she returns, she places a gentle hand on his arm. "Of course, you know that," she shrugs. "Your toothbrush from last time should still be in the bathroom. Toothpaste is in the bottom cabinet if the one on the sink is empty."

"Got it," he nods.

"And the—"

"Blankets are in the linen closet," he finishes for her, matching her smile. "I know. Go get some sleep, kiddo. You need it."

She says nothing for a moment, just looks at him in a way he can't comprehend, an expression on her face that, oddly enough, he can't read. But then she smiles again, the moment gone, and lifts a hand in a tiny wave.

"Night, Scott," she says before she turns away.

* * *

Not too long after Tessa retires to her bedroom—hopefully on her way to being deep in a peaceful sleep by now—Scott turns the TV back on for some background noise, lowering the volume so it won’t disturb her. He watches nothing in particular for a while, just something on the Food Network that he somehow gets sucked into.

(Gordon Ramsay calling grown men ‘fucking donuts’ is everything and he’d pick up the moniker if he didn’t think Tess would disown him for using it in public). 

An hour and twelve new colorful insults courtesy of Gordon later, Scott finally decides to grab the blankets and pillow from the hallway closet.

He puts them, still perfectly folded, onto one of the couch cushions and heads into the bathroom. As suspected, the toothbrush he claimed last time is sitting in the cup on her sink, right beside her own. The small detail has something like glee settling deep in his stomach.

There's nothing in the tube of toothpaste currently on the sink so he bends to open the little cabinet below in search of a new one. There are a few different kinds in brand new, unopened boxes ("I think there's an extra," she told him, as if she doesn't have an entire stock complete with various options hidden down here) and he grabs one of the minty fresh ones without much thought.

He's not exactly particular about it and he’s learned, through years of travel and shared toothpaste, that Tessa's not either. She  _does_ , however, prefer the after-taste the mint toothpaste leaves more so than any of the others.

Sliding it from the box, he moves to toss it into the trash with the empty toothpaste tube when something catches his eye. A bright pink, peeking from beneath some balled up toilet paper. He doesn't think much of it until the toothpaste box shifts the toilet paper and the front of the colorful box reveals itself.

Heart suddenly lodged somewhere startlingly high in his throat, he forces himself to pluck it from the garbage. That isn’t… no, of course it's not. Except that it is, and he’s staring right at it.

It feels suddenly like he’s witness to a horrible car crash; he can’t stop gawking, a heaviness planting itself on his chest, and looking away doesn’t make it any less real. 

Mouth dry, feeling all at once like he’s stuffed it with cotton, Scott finds himself standing in Tessa's bathroom with a pregnancy test held shakily in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments on the first chapter! I'm excited for this little ride and I hope you are too :)
> 
> Also, for the sake of this, let's pretend JSOI started a few weeks later than it actually did.


	3. Chapter 3

Scott can’t seem to move, shock cementing his feet to Tessa’s tiled flooring like anchors. He blinks blank-faced at the box for what feels like hours and then, finally, lets out a heavy exhale. It’s astonishing, really, how much of what’s going on in his brain right now is less actual, coherent thoughts and more muted screaming and incessant buzzing.

Much like everything happening up there, the offending object he’s holding just doesn’t  _connect,_ doesn’t fit together in any kind of intelligible way.

Scott eventually tucks the box back into Tessa’s trashcan (using great care to put it almost exactly the way it was, as if she’d notice the box’s position being moved by half an inch and automatically know he saw it) and moves on autopilot back into the living room. He messily unfolds the blankets, tosses the pillow against the arm of the couch, and lays beneath them, his body stiff as a board.

The television is still on, some show with Bobby Flay chattering on in the background. He’s not watching it, couldn’t concentrate if he tried, but he doesn’t shut it off because he needs the noise to drown out the voices in his head.

Tessa. Pregnant.

Because it was just the box, no pregnancy test inside—he checked, just as he checked the trash, carefully, using the toothpaste box as a tool—and who takes a negative test with them? No one, right? If it’s negative it’s just… thrown out, discarded, forgotten about. 

If it’s positive, however, it’s shown off. Isn’t that something women do? Use the test to announce their pregnancy to their significant other? (Except he's not Tessa's significant other and they're not together and is the ceiling spinning just a little?)

It’s what he’s heard, at least; no one’s come at him with a pregnancy test before.

( _Yet_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully, the thought barreling through the cobwebs of his brain before it has a chance to truly register. It sends him into a tailspin.)

His heart hammers in his chest, slams almost painfully against his ribs. Moving one palm to his chest he wills it to slow, to get a normal heart-rate going, but it doesn't seem to be all that receptive to the plan. Even still, he lays there for a few more minutes, applying pressure as if he’ll be able to manually cease the thumping.

It doesn't work.

“Idiot,” he mutters, the word muffled through the fingers of his other hand. Well,  _fuck_ , of course it won't work. 

He wishes it was something else. A dirty magazine or a feminine product he’s not that acquainted with—he’s not sure what, since twenty years with Tess has exposed him to damn near everything, but there’s gotta be _something_ —or a vibrator. Anything; he’s really not picky. Then it’d be awkward and funny and he’d be able to laugh it off, but this is more jarring than awkward, he can't calm down, and he is so far from laughing.

He wasn't snooping but he can't shake the feeling that Tessa wouldn't be all that thrilled if he just blurted it out. He wouldn’t even know what to blurt out, to be fair. 

 _I found the box to your pregnancy test. Do you have something to tell me?_  

Rifling through her trash or not, curious or not, it  _is_  a bit weird to just pull a random box out of the garbage.

(And have an emotional crisis over it, but he’s pretty damn sure this one’s justified.)

Eyes screwed shut, he’s powerless to stop the hundred and one images that flood back, the choppy film-strips of memories that, up until right now, he had managed to convince himself were figments of his alcohol-fueled imagination.

The only thing he was absolutely certain of the entire time was the celebration; followed close behind is joining Tessa in her room. He woke up in his own room, yeah, but he’s almost  _positive_ they were in hers too. He’s at a 100% confidence level for the celebration and about 85% for going to her room, which is still pretty high. He’ll take what he can get. 

He also knows Kaitlyn was still out with Andrew and Chiddy and the rest of the team because he and Tess were the only two who left, which means her room was empty. That means his was too, but somehow that detail doesn’t seem as important.

From what he remembers—he scoffs because, really, what does he even remember at this point?—they were both pretty buzzed by the end of the night, but it’s glaringly obvious that he was worse off than Tess. He was the one hungover and unable to recall bits and pieces of the night before, and she was totally and completely fine the next morning at breakfast. 

Scott groans as the picture of Tessa’s palm splayed at his chest, fingers slowly curling into the fabric of his shirt, fills his mind. He thinks if he could just remember what happened directly after that moment he’d have something more to go off of but that’s it, that’s all he’s got. Her crooked little smile and twinkling, slightly glassy eyes staring back at him.

He can’t do this.

He sits up a little, stretches his torso out over his legs and grips onto his ankles, effectively folding himself in half. Deep breath in, out. In, out.

This isn't real. None of it  _happened_ ; but it must have, right? If Tessa's pregnant then it only makes sense that all of those false memories aren't false at all.  _Makes sense_ , he laughs to himself; none of this makes sense. But, even still, following this line of logic... they had sex that night, just like he originally thought, and Tessa’s been deliberately pretending as if they didn’t.

That alone has dread weaving like vines through the cracks in his heart because it  _also_ means one of his earlier fears is confirmed. Tessa’s either letting him down gently, or she regrets that it happened. As painful as it is, he’ll take door number one.

He wonders for one brief, horrifying second, what if it’s not even his? But Tessa hasn’t been seeing anyone, they’ve barely had time to even breathe in the past few months let alone do anything else, and that’s all he needs to push the unwelcome thought right back out.

(It’s what he sticks to because the alternative is far too agonizing to think about. 

He pointedly ignores why there’s an ache deep in his bones every time he even thinks about Tessa with another guy.)

"Shit," he mumbles to himself, blowing out a breath. Both hands unfurl to cover his face. " _Shit_."

Scott needs... well, he needs a lot of things. A drink, though that's exactly what got him into this situation. To get out of this apartment. Fresh air, or maybe some water splashed onto his face. 

Above all, what he needs most right now is some sleep. It doesn't seem like it'll come easily, or at all if he’s being realistic, but it'll be hell if he doesn't at least try.

Tessa. Pregnant.

The two words repeat like a mantra in his head until he finally manages to fall into a light, fitful sleep.

* * *

The clock on Tessa’s wall—which he’s been dutifully checking each time he wakes up, this marking whopping number seven—reads just after 6:00 when he finally gives up on getting any kind of decent rest. Sitting up quickly, he throws the blankets from his body and swings his legs over the edge of the couch.

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and then releases it. Balancing his elbows on his thighs, his head falls into open palms.

So, not a dream, huh? Whiskey: 1. Scott: 0.

Breathing exercises usually help, but the one that soothes him the most involves Tessa and he can’t exactly waltz into her bedroom at the crack of dawn with no explanation as to why he needs a hug. 

It's a new day but it feels like one never-ending extension of last night. Because it is really,  _technically_ , since it was after midnight when The Thing happened, but it’s still driving him insane. 

His nerves are like live wires beneath his skin, buzzing and sending a harsh jolt throughout his body every time he thinks about it. With a small groan, he forces himself to stand.

Tessa's still asleep and he can’t help but be in awe of how vastly different things are right now than they were just over twelve hours ago. Yesterday he looked at her just as he has forever and now, replaying the day in his head, he catalogs it. Every move, every word said. His hands caressing her body as they went through their routine, completely unaware of the difference.

Running a hand through his unruly hair, tousled from the restless tossing and turning, he’s suddenly extremely thankful that Tess sleeps in. This gives him a bit of time to himself.

While he can't get a drink right now (or really he shouldn’t, because it’s just after six in the morning and even he has to draw a line somewhere), he  _can_ get some fresh air. Some space. Being awake in Tessa’s apartment before the sun has risen with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company feels too claustrophobic.

Throwing on his shoes, he plucks his coat from where it was draped last night and shrugs into it. He closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, not wanting to wake Tessa, and skips the elevator in favor of sprinting down the stairs.

He walks with no destination in mind and watches around him as the city begins to wake up; there's people heading off to work or getting off of night shifts, students groggily stumbling around with books in hand. When walking doesn’t do much good and he can feel himself getting unbearably antsy, he finds the nearest park and runs laps for what seems like five minutes and an eternity at the same time. These aren't exactly running shoes and the balls of his feet start burning around the hour and a half mark, but it's just what he needs. The fresh air, the glowing morning sun beating down on his face and warming the chill.

There's something about the quiet serenity of it all, a time before most everyday people wake and start bustling around, that calms him. He thinks maybe this is why he’s always loved mornings. It settles over his skin like a blanket in a way he wasn't sure was possible given how he’d spent the night.

Chuckling a little, he shakes his head. He sounds like Tess.

As he slows to a jog, heart rabbiting and breaths coming in short bursts, more thoughts cycle through. They start with the same shocking revelations as last night—it wasn't all just one big hallucination, they must've slept together, Tessa's (more than likely, based on what little evidence he’s gathered) pregnant—but a few new ones move into rotation, followed by more than a few questions.

When did she find out? How is she feeling? Is she freaking out? If  _he’s_ freaking out she must be, right? Is she upset?

Over the years Scott has learned much about Tessa. He knows all of her defense mechanisms; he knows how she gets when she’s hungry and tired and in pain; he knows her body better than he knows his own most days; he knows exactly how to react—when to push, when to take a step back, and when to nudge her even if she doesn’t know it’s what she needs; and he knows how to make her smile, how to coax that boisterous laugh from deep in her belly to escape. 

But he’s also learned that Tessa’s more inclined to keep things close to the belt. Where Scott has a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, emotions written all over his face, she maintains a poker face, puts on a bright smile, and deals with her stuff in private.

It’s harder for her to keep things from him, because she’s her and he’s him and they’re  _them_ , but she’s been known to succeed (impressively well) when she’s deemed it necessary.

Right now he doesn’t need to play Pictionary with her facial features, he needs answers. Given what he has (it's not much, and if he was a detective he'd be fired before his first day even began) and how well he knows Tessa, he thinks he’s going to go with a gentle nudge approach. Feed her little breadcrumbs here and there, try to let on that he knows something without having to outright say it and risk scaring her off.

Hunching over beside a tree, a loud, unexpected bout of laughter spills from his lips.  _Risk scaring her off,_ as if she’s a damn skittish animal, but he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. 

How else is he supposed to navigate this situation?

There’s no self help guide for this, absolutely no script to follow. There’s no  _What To Do When You Think You’ve Knocked Up Your Platonic Skating Partner After A Night You Might’ve Spent Together But You Can’t Remember_  book he can just run off and purchase at the nearest corner store.

It’d be one hell of a help if there was, though.

So, overall, Scott doesn't figure too much out on his run. He still has nothing to go off of other than the box in the trash can, some flashes of memory and some maybe clues, and nothing at all from Tess. 

Clue. He feels like he’s in that game right now, like the answer’s going to be hidden in an envelope at the end of the road. _It was Scott and Tessa with the impulse decisions in the Olympic Village._ Or maybe it's more like the beginning of one of those horrible jokes, starring a drunk Olympic gold medalist, some whiskey, and a pregnancy test. He doesn't know how it'd go, but those are the main factors. Except two of the three can't really walk into a—

It doesn't matter. Focus.

Maybe she hasn’t said anything because she’s waiting for  _him_  to say something first? God, this is a mess.

Like, a big mess.

He does get one thing out of his time alone, though, in addition to the tiniest, barely noticeable unless you squint semblance of calm. There’s one finite conclusion he has solidified as he hustles back up the stairs of Tessa's apartment: he'll do whatever she wants him to. Anything she needs, he's here; a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, or even a punching bag if she really needs it. He'll be right by her side for everything.

Whatever she wants to do, he's on her team. He just has to get her to see that. Without outright laying all of his cards on the table it’ll be a bit more difficult, more about actions than words, but he’s confident. 

This will be nothing at all like it was after her first surgery. No disappearing act, no radio silence, no tension—okay, maybe a  _little_ tension is inevitable, but none borne from the fact that he’s not present.

With nerves still crackling in his skin but a renewed sense of determination, Scott kicks off his shoes, politely hangs up his coat this time, and paces into the kitchen.

When Tessa wakes up, there'll be a nice breakfast.

He spends half an hour scrambling some eggs and poaching a few others, unsure of what kind she'll be in the mood for. Her kitchen is pretty sparse food wise, so he hopes the near-full carton isn’t an indication that she’s sick of eggs. Scott finds some bacon in the back of her fridge and, after making sure it’s not expired or growing a second furry skin, fries that too while he rummages around for some fruit. Thankfully Tessa has some strawberries and grapes, so he makes a little platter of the two.

When he hears the faint rustling of blankets, a sure sign that Tess will wake soon, he pops in some toast and starts making another cup of coffee. He’s downed three so far and he’s not sure if he’s so zoned out he can’t even feel the effects or if he’s twitching on the outside and just unaware of it.

Despite his preparation and the knowledge that she'd likely be up within twenty, the sound of her voice, still raspy with sleep, sends a shiver down his spine and makes his back stiffen with traitorous nerves.

"Morning. What's all this?" 

Whipping around in what’s quite possibly the  _least_ natural movement ever, Scott’s somehow still surprised to find her standing in front of him. Her pajamas have rumpled a little in the night and her fingers continue to rub at the sensitive skin just above the apples of her cheeks.  

His mouth opens but all he can focus on is her bedhead, her beautifully bare face, and the brightness of her sleepy eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting the response to the last chapter at all. Thank you all so much xx


	4. Chapter 4

Scott doesn't realize he's just standing there, openly staring at her like a deer in the headlights, until he sees her lips moving but he can't hear what she's saying. Her brows knit together, she takes a step forward, and her close proximity is what pulls him out of whatever nervous trance had him frozen.

"Earth to Scott," she says again when he fails to speak. Her eyes search his, assessing. "Are you all right?"

He shakes his head, which of course has her face morphing into an expression of genuine concern, and he comes  _this_ close to slapping himself.

"I mean no—yeah, I'm fine." It's a little too quick, his voice a little too high, but at least the smile on his face is genuine.  _Snap yourself out of it_. "And to answer your question, this is breakfast."

Tessa’s silent for a few more moments before she, blessedly, decides to let it slide. She huffs. "Thanks, I didn't realize." 

She makes a move to grab something from the counter but he swats at her hand and gestures to the table instead. Relenting, with just the smallest roll of her eyes, Tessa takes a seat and lets him bring the rest of the food over. Which, okay, looking at it now, all spread out like a damn Thanksgiving dinner,  _does_  look like a bit much for what he’s calling a casual breakfast.

But what can he say? He’s a stress cooker.

"Seriously, what's the occasion?"

"No occasion," he shrugs, hoping it comes off as nonchalantly as he’s aiming for. "I’ve been up for a few hours and figured I could use the time to make us a nice meal. Breakfast  _is_ the most important meal of the day.” 

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day? Weak, so weak. 

“I think I’ve heard that once or twice,” she teases.

Clearing his throat, Scott ignores the little voice in the back of his mind berating him for being so obviously... weird. He’s thankful that she’s still waking up, not yet so quick to completely pick up on it. 

“Eat up, T."

"That’s really sweet, thank you,” she says softly, a smile on her face. Then she looks up at him. “Wait, a few hours? Scott, it’s 9:00.”

“I know.”

“How many is a few?” she asks, one brow perfectly arched.

Chuckling a little, he gives a half-raise of one shoulder. No big deal. “About three.”

Three since he actually gave up and propelled himself into the world—more if you count the hours he spent tossing and turning, trying to sleep but instead just intermittently staring at her clock. Fun fact: at three o’clock in the morning the world is so quiet that each tick of the minute and hour hands can be heard. Less fun fact: birds start chirping at about four o’clock and only get progressively louder from there. They never shut up.

“Maybe this apartment's cursed,” she muses, picking at a piece of bacon. “First I wake up every few hours and can’t sleep, now you’re waking up at 6am on one of the few days we can actually sleep in.” 

Scott’s mouth quirks to the side. “Eh, it’s not all bad. I went for an early run.”

“It’s still this early and you’ve already gone for a run and made breakfast; all I’ve done is  _sleep_ ,” she laughs. “Way to make me look like a bum, Moir.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not a bum, Tess, you need your rest right now.” Glancing up from behind her glass of orange juice, she eyes him funnily. “Because you haven’t been sleeping well lately. You know, to make up for it.”

 _Smooth_.

“Well, thank you for the concern but I feel much better this morning.” Her hands gesture to the plate in front of her before she peers back up at him, crinkles around her eyes when she smiles. “Can’t start off any better than a wonderful breakfast, right? Most important meal and all.”

It's only a few seconds after she starts eating that a small jolt of panic hits him. Aren't eggs bad for pregnant women? Not eggs themselves, he supposes, but the smell? He's always heard talk about how they can't stomach it, and in some cases just looking at runny eggs is enough to make them lose their breakfast.

Tessa looks fine though, totally content as she cuts into one of the poached eggs. Nothing seems to be amiss and he lets his shoulders loosen, the tension slowly evaporating. 

After a few covert peeks over at her, just to be sure, he finally allows himself to start in on his own breakfast.

A part of him wonders if he should just say something, explain what he saw and ask about it. The other part, the part that's undoubtedly going to win out because he knows himself, doesn't want to put her on the spot like that. What if she's still figuring things out? What if she's not ready to talk about it? What if she's... thinking about other options?

The thought sits sourly in the pit of his stomach and  _god_  he hopes that’s not something she’s considering, but he's in this with her. Ultimately, no matter what his preference may be, if this isn't something she wants or is ready for, then he's going to support her decision.

His hands still, fork halted on its way to his mouth. He has a  _preference_? Fuck, well, guess he does.

He feels dizzy.

"Scott?" Blinking, his breathing a little heavy, he lifts his eyes to hers. "I know you said you’re fine but really, are you okay? You don’t seem so—you look kind of out of it."

Tess looks so worried, eyes still a little tired but on high alert. One of her hands sits on the table, fingers twitching as if she's ready to reach out and grab onto his, drape her palm over his clammy skin.

"I'm good," he promises. He  _is_  good. A little disoriented and panicked, rotating through a million emotions and currently mid-minor internal breakdown, but otherwise fine. "Like I said, just didn’t get much sleep last night."

After a few calculating seconds, her eyes roaming his face for signs of... something, she nods. A soft smile blooms across her face.

"Stay up late watching hockey, huh?" she quips as she takes a bite of her toast.

Scott laughs. "Ah, I wish, Tess. I wish."

* * *

The rest of the morning goes by just as every other morning when he stays the night. They clear their plates, finish off their coffees (Tessa makes her own after giving him a questioning look at the tea he’d set before her, and it takes all of his resolve to  _not_ stare at her like a creepy stalker to see if she chooses decaf), and he begins putting the glasses into the dishwasher despite her protests.

“I’m hardly a guest. I haven’t been a guest in any of your homes since I was like  _nine_ ,” he challenges, warding her off with one arm when she tries to physically grab the mug from his hand. It’s wet from where he’s just rinsed it and water drips into a decent sized puddle between the two of them with each passing second. Laughing, he flicks a bit of the water from the tips of his fingers at her. “I’m gonna drop these and they’re gonna shatter all over your kitchen floor, kiddo.”

“Not if you just put them down and stop trying to do my dishes.”

“I’m not doing your dishes. Putting them into your dishwasher is simply getting the  _machine_ ready to do your dishes.”

Shaking her head, she purses her lips. 

“You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Scott grins, wide and untamed as he moves the mug to his other hand, further away from her. “I am, actually.”

Tessa takes this moment of distraction to quickly step into his space, reach around him, and pluck the mug from his grasp. “Ha!”

As she moves to back away she manages to step right into the puddle of water, her right foot slipping out from under her. She lets out a squeak of a gasp and just as quickly he’s leaning down, wrapping his arm her around the waist before she has a chance to hit the floor. In the shock of it all, her grip loosens around the mug and it goes crashing onto the tile, shards of glass shattering everywhere.

Tessa’s giggling, eyes squinted as she laughs. She’s completely oblivious to the way his heart thumps aggressively against his sternum and if he wasn’t so painfully aware of it he’d actually be able to appreciate that lovely sound.

“Guess you were right about the mug, huh?” Her voice is light, tinged with amusement. 

He must hold her too tightly for a beat too long; when he finally looks down at her, she’s no longer laughing. 

“Scott,” she says, glancing down to his hand on her waist and then back. “It's okay. I think I’m safe now.”

“Right.” Pulling her up, he releases his grip and ignores the pang in his chest when her fingers unfurl from where she had them braced on his arm. Surveying the area, he lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Shit. Uh, okay, don’t—don’t move. I’ll go get the broom.”

Once the floor is clear of every piece of glass he can see—with Tessa overseeing from where she sits on her kitchen counter, feet swaying near his hips—he tosses them into the trash.

“Am I all clear?”

Scott salutes. “All clear for landing.”

Tessa jumps down from the counter. “Thanks. I mean, you broke my favorite mug but at least you cleaned it up.”

His mouth drops open. “First, that’s not your favorite mug. Your favorite mug is the white one with a dainty, cursive ‘T’ on the front,” he says, reveling in the smirk she gives him. He knows he’s right. “And  _I_  definitely didn’t break it! I seem to recall that the person whose hand let go of the mug is none other than our very own Tessa Virtue. That’s you.”

“I wouldn’t have had to take it if you would’ve just listened to me and stopped trying to do the dishes,” she counters, a glint in her eyes. “ _So_ , yes you broke the mug.”

Scott laughs, shakes his head. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Yup.”

* * *

Tessa gets dressed and emerges from her bedroom with a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt that are, upon closer inspection, his. He must’ve left them here at some point, though he’s unsure of when; he never brings a bag because staying over just happens, isn’t ever really planned, and so there’s never a reason for him to take off the one pair of clothes he wears over.

(Scott’s gotten very good at ignoring all of the reasons he wishes there was, starting and ending with the feelings that have been laying partially dormant in his system since he was seventeen years old.

The fact that it’s  _happened_ and he can’t remember any of it is undoubtedly, he’s decided, karma for the shitty things he said and did as a teenager. Any of them. Pick one, and that's likely the reason sex with Tessa has just been wiped clean from his memories like a cruel joke.

Okay,  _and_ the whiskey, sure, but karma's one hell of a bitch.)   

He’s not sure when last time he saw these particular clothes was but the shirt smells distinctly like her, like Tess, as if she’s been  _wearing_ it, and he smiles through the ache in his chest at the image his mind conjures up. 

“Do you want to go over to the rink together or did you have to go back to your apartment first?” she calls from the bathroom.

He wanders from the couch and leans against the wall in the hallway, adjacent to the open bathroom door. She’s standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair into a high pony-tail.

“I think I’ll run back first,” he says. “I have to get my skating bag and make sure everything’s still in order.”

Tessa turns with an amused smirk. “Think your one lone potted plant led a revolt while you were gone last night?”

"Fran is very temperamental, T," he says with mock-seriousness. "We can't rule anything out."

Her brow quirks. " _Fran_?"

Scott shrugs. "It's a ficus, it seemed fitting." At Tessa’s unconvinced look, he sighs, quietly mumbling out, “and there was a re-run of The Nanny on when I named it.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it,” she grins. “Well, I look forward to meeting your ficus named Fran.”

Pausing, he blinks a few times. His lips pull into a line. "At least I think it's a ficus. Maybe it's ivy."

"Scott, a ficus looks nothing like ivy. Do you know what either of those plants look like?" 

"I'm not a botanist."

Arms crossing over her chest, her eyes light with amusement. "Clearly not."

Tessa brushes his shoulder with her hand as she moves from the bathroom and maneuvers between him and the wall to get to the living room. She picks up her travel makeup bag and tucks it under her arm.

"Laugh all you want but Fran is still alive," he says, chest puffed out with pride. "I may not know what she is, but she's well taken care of."

He didn’t buy the plant; it was given to him recently to make his apartment look, in Danny’s words, “more presentable.” It started as a joke but now he’s... not attached, not to a plant, but he feels responsible since it’s his first time keeping something other than himself (and Tess, when she forgets to eat and he has to physically shove food into her hands) alive. He thinks his apartment is plenty presentable, thank you very much, but he doesn’t want it to die or anything. 

The next thing he knows, a piece of fabric is being chucked in his direction. It lands square in his face and he realizes it's his jacket, and Tessa is now standing (a little guiltily, though no less amused) on the other side of the room. How did that happen?

"Go check on your plant child already. Can't leave her waiting. Or wilting, more likely."

Huffing a little, he shoves his arms into his jacket and moves towards the front door. "You're funny," he says lowly into her ear as he passes. Her breathing hitches a little and he thinks maybe he's imagining it.

The moment's gone in a flash.

"I’ll see you in half an hour?”

“Half an hour.”

He hears her voice waft through the hallway just as her door closes behind him, urging him to  _find out what Fran is while you’re at it!_

* * *

On the surface, their late morning practice isn’t all that different from yesterday’s. They go through the Michael Jackson program again and iron out some last minute kinks and fix some edges, but there is one glaring addition today that wasn’t here last time: Scott’s hyper-awareness. 

Of every grip, every caress, every single movement. There’s a painstaking consciousness to everything he does and he  _knows_ he’s being softer with her than he usually is. More careful.

She can tell, there’s no way she can’t, but she doesn’t say anything.

Tessa just keeps going through the routine, instructs him towards the end of their practice that she wants to do it a few more times just to cement it. To him it’s already perfect and he’s not sure there’s anything else necessary to make it better, but he nods in agreement.

As they skate to the music, Scott finds himself watching her every move more intently than normal—which, admittedly, he didn’t think was possible until this moment. Eyes roaming, he searches for anything; a sign of exhaustion, of something being outwardly different, even minutely, but he comes up empty. 

Tess is wearing a baggy sweater but that doesn’t mean a thing; when he grips her waist and she slides down the front of his body, there’s nothing but toned muscle. Then again, it’s only been about two months so he doesn’t think there would be much to show yet anyway.

He’s wary of the lifts and he’s extra cautious when he has her rolling over his shoulder. His grip is tight, fear curled in his chest, and he doesn’t breathe until she’s settled comfortably back onto the ice.

The Goose nearly sends him into a panic because all he can picture is Tess losing her footing and falling, or him losing  _his_ balance and throwing them both off, again resulting in Tessa tumbling to the ice below.

“Snap out of it.”

He thinks it’s in his head, his own nagging little voice scolding him once again for being so utterly ridiculous, but then he realizes it’s not. 

It’s Tessa.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she says, arms slapping limply at her sides. “Whatever’s gotten into your head. Snap out of it.”

Scott exhales, follows her strokes until he’s leaning against the boards and she’s stepping out of the rink. He’s almost terrified that she’s just going to walk out and leave the building because he’s so off his game, but then she wanders over to her bag and pulls out a water bottle.

 _Relax_ , he tells himself. This is Tessa; she doesn’t just disappear when he’s having an off day, never has.

“I don’t know what was going on,” he lies. “Sorry, Tess. I must’ve just zoned out or something. Go at it again?”

Holding out his hand, he shoots her the most charming _please forgive me even though I didn’t really do anything wrong and you’re not really mad_  smile and watches as she puts her bottle back, nods, and steps forward to link her fingers with his.

It’s easier to act normal when they get back into it, really into it, and the music takes over. It’s easier to pretend nothing’s changed when that’s exactly how Tessa’s acting, and for the remainder of practice he’s able to forget about the past twelve hours and just dance.

Holding her hand and gliding across the ice with her is where he belongs and no matter what else is going on, no matter what’s going to happen, they have  _this_. 

And this is enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's taken a bit! I was out of town all week and had little time to write/edit. 
> 
> Thank you all for your kind responses, they make my day :)


	5. Chapter 5

It’s about a week into Scott’s not exactly fool proof wait-and-see-where-this-goes plan when a number of little things happen, each hastening his slow descent into insanity. It’s his own damn fault, this he knows, because it’s  _his_ brain that’s jumping to conclusions and leaving him with high blood pressure.

(He doesn’t know that for certain but he’d bet money on it at this point.)

Now that he’s settled somewhat comfortably into the camp of I Did Have Sex With Tessa Virtue and is a foot and a half in the door of camp I Also Got Her Pregnant, every part of his being has been on high alert.

It was present in little ways before now, starting when he found the test...  _box,_ Scott, you found a  _box_ —like when they work through lifts they could easily do in their sleep and he’s terrified for her life (and the baby’s—fuck, the  _baby’s_ , that’s so weird) or when he holds his breath to keep from immediately asking if she’s okay every time she looks even marginally uncomfortable—but this? This is something else.

This is next level, some  _please explain to me what my brain is doing I just want to rest_ kind of shit. Because everything is suddenly about this...  _this_. 

It’s like tunnel vision, like everything Tessa does or says has a double meaning. As mundane and innocent as it may be, whether or not it has a totally normal explanation that a normal person would easily come to, it's suddenly about her well-being and the pregnancy. And, of course, everything his brain concocts as the explanation? 

All wrong.

It’s Saturday now and he needs a  _drink_.

* * *

It starts on Monday.

Scott’s out running an errand, perusing the local grocery store to find the necessary ingredients for pasta that he doesn’t already have at his apartment. Which is really just tomato sauce, since somehow that’s the one item he hadn’t picked up last time.

He’s just made it to the front of the line to check out when his phone goes off in his pocket; it startles him because he completely forgot he shoved it into his back pocket this time, and he’s not all that accustomed to his ass vibrating. He balances one can of tomato sauce on top of the other and holds them in the crook of his elbow while he plucks the device from the bottom of his pocket.

With a grin, he answers. “Hey.”

“Scott?”

His smile falters at the panicked tone of her voice. “Tess?”

“Scott, can you... I need you...” She trails off and there’s a small gasp, some shuffling, and then she returns with, “Please, I’m—”

She sounds terrified, a waiver to her voice like she’s trying to keep herself together, and every nerve ending in Scott’s body crackles.

“T, what’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to hurry the cashier who’s taking his damn time giving him the change, and he has half a mind to just  _leave it_  and run out. He manages to get his change, shoves the dollar bills unceremoniously into his pockets, but _does_ run out before the guy has a chance to bag his items.

Tessa doesn’t answer though, just responds with another choked sound from the back of her throat and a squeak that has the hairs on his arms standing at attention. Bolting out the door, he wishes he had driven to the store.

“Tessa,” he tries again, the phone held tightly to his ear. He hears a small clatter as her phone drops (or she falls, or any other hundred possibilities that result in that sound, but he’s  _really_ trying not to think about it) and his heart lodges itself in his throat.

He runs to her apartment as fast as he can, yelling her name into his phone for the first five minutes even though he’s positive she’s no longer on the other end. Maybe she can still hear him.

What if something happened? Okay, clearly something happened; Tess isn’t in the habit of calling him in a panic for no reason, but what if there’s something wrong? With her... or with the baby? She hasn’t even told him about it yet and there could be something—

Shaking his head, he forces himself to focus on getting to her quickly, nothing else. That’s the only thing that matters.

When he gets to her apartment building he sprints up the stairs, ready to both comfort her and—he realizes belatedly that someone could’ve broken in ( _pleasenopleasenopleaseno_ ), and he steels himself, prepared to fight off an intruder if necessary. 

Fishing around in his pocket for his key-chain, he fumbles a little in trying to find hers with one hand. He could knock, but this is an extenuating circumstance and he’s sure she won’t mind if he just lets himself in.

So, he does. 

“Tess?” he calls out, quietly, barely audible over the television. It sounds like a whisper but he can’t tell if it truly came out that low or if he’s just unable to hear beyond the blood rushing in his ears. 

Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t do that. Police usually creep inside to make their presence unknown, right? Just in case? 

Scott nearly laughs at himself.  _You’re not the police, and this isn’t a crime scene. Breathe_. 

He catalogs his surroundings slowly, takes in the rug that’s out of place and braces himself for anything. He wishes he had some sort of weapon, now that he thinks about it. 

After a few seconds of clearing the living room (that’s what they call it in those crime shows he’s seen, and he just barely holds back the urge to yell out “clear!” See, he can be a decent detective sometimes) he finds her curled into the corner of her kitchen, huddled on a chair.

Tessa’s eyes meet his and her shoulders instantly relax. “Scott. Thank god.” She unfurls herself a little, but only just, and truly looks at him. “What are you doing?”

What is he—what is  _he_ doing? He wants to know what  _she’s_ doing. But, looking down to follow her gaze, he realizes now just how he looks.

Out of breath, chest heaving and eyes a little wild, with two cans of tomato sauce joined together and balanced in one hand.

Well, all right, he’ll admit that he certainly paints quite the picture.

Shaking his head, he hurries over to her and places his free hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” His eyes trail over her face, the touch of redness in her cheeks, and then ultimately fall to her stomach. She doesn’t  _look_ injured. Thankfully. “Are you in pain? Is something wrong?”

But she’s immediately shaking her head, eyes falling shut for a second before she peers up.

“There’s a spider.”

There’s… what now? Blinking, Scott just stares at her in disbelief.

“A spider,” he repeats lamely. She gives a nod to confirm. “There’s a spider. That’s why you called me?”

Tess flushes and  _fuck_  he didn’t mean it like that, like she shouldn’t call him for little things like this, because she  _should_ , he loves that she does. He just... was expecting something much worse.

A spider is preferable to thinking there’s been a break-in or a tragic accident with the baby he’s not even supposed to know about.

“It’s a huge spider,” she says quietly, a little unsure and a lot embarrassed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to make you come all the way over here.”

She still won’t get down off the chair, though, can’t even look at the hardwood flooring without her eyes darting around for the eight legged monster.

“No, no, I’m more than happy to help you with your spider needs,” he assures, squeezing her shoulder. “You just scared the shit out of me with that call, Tess. Give a guy some details next time, eh?”

“It crawled past me with its  _beady little eyes_  and I dropped my phone, sorry,” she admits, nodding her head towards the living room. He’s thrilled to know the phone drop was for a much less tragic reason. For him, of course—he knows Tessa’s fear of spiders is rivaled only by his of mascots. “It’s still on the floor. I ran in here and it was a casualty.”

Scott laughs then, the knots in his chest loosening bit by bit, and wanders into the living room to retrieve her phone from where it slid halfway under the couch. 

Handing it to her, he grins. “So, where’s the spider?”

“Well it  _was_  in there, hence fleeing to the kitchen, but I lost track of it after that. Scott, it could be anywhere,” she says, horror clouding her voice. Her eyes are wide. “Oh god. It could be in my room.”

“I’ll check, I promise.”

“What if it crawled into my sheets?” she asks. Her entire body shivers at the thought and she curls herself back into a tight ball on the chair.

Scott grabs her hand and forces her to look at him. “Hey, I won’t make you sleep with the spider, okay? If we can’t find it you’ll stay with me tonight. Deal?”

Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Tessa eventually nods. “Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

He’s just about to turn around and begin his quest to find the spider that’s terrorizing his partner’s apartment when she calls out. 

“Yeah?”

“Any reason you walked in like you were entering a battle?”

“Huh?”

Tessa makes a wide gesture with her arms, one curled closer to her chest and the other outstretched as if to ward off evil. She is, apparently, imitating his initial stance upon entering her apartment.

“You didn’t give me anything to go off of, T,” he says, just a hint sheepish. “You sounded horrified and I didn’t know if there was like, an intruder or something.”

“And you were planning to ward them off with… tomato sauce?”

Scott looks down to the cans still curled in his left arm and groans. Why hasn’t he just put them down? 

“I was at the store when you called. I need them for pasta.”

“Less exciting but still acceptable,” she says. Shifting in her seat, she balances her elbow on the tabletop, eyelashes fluttering as she looks at him. “Dinner after?”

“You only keep me around for my spider killing services and my decent cooking, don’t you?”

A gentle smile tugs at her lips. “Among a few other things,” she says softly. “It’s very noble of you to come in here ready to knock out my intruder with vegetable cans, Scott, really.”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just allows a smile to tug at his lips.

“Spider first though, please.”

Scott  _finally_ deposits the tomato sauce onto her table, laughing when Tessa immediately pulls them closer to her as if to hold them hostage should he try to skip out without making dinner, and salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Brain: 1  
Scott: 0

* * *

It continues on Thursday when Tessa gently pulls him aside at the rink and asks if they can talk later.

“What’s up?” he asks, praying that his voice sounds a million times steadier than he feels.

“Later,” she says again, running a hand along his arm. Not during practice, that’s what she tells him, and he wants to scream  _then why tell me during practice!_  But he doesn’t, of course. “Come to my place for dinner? You don’t have to do a thing this time. Now that it’s spider free I’ll make good use of the kitchen.”

“I don’t think it was the spider that was keeping you from using your kitchen, T.”

She bumps his shoulder with her own and rolls her eyes. “Be nice or I won’t show you my specialty.”

“Breakfast for dinner?”

Tessa narrows her eyes, purses her lips, and points at him but says nothing more. As she makes her way back onto the ice Scott’s torn between laughing and crying.

He spends the next few hours pretending he’s not having his fifth internal crisis of the week.

That night when he finally arrives at her apartment (a bit on edge but otherwise composed), he finds out that Tessa’s specialty, much to his surprise, involves zero breakfast foods and is actually a fairly well-cooked plate of chicken parmesan.

(He’s pretty sure it’s one of those recipes from that box subscription she gets, but he won’t let her know that. She’s too proud and, hey, following directions to make a delicious meal does count as cooking.)

It tastes nice and just a little like a precursor to something more. Or a lot, because the entire drive over here he was sweating despite the air blasting in his car and all he can think about is how  _this is it_.

She’s bringing him over to her apartment, actually cooking him dinner and letting him choose the movie even though he chose last time and it’s absolutely her turn, and has something to tell him. 

She’s doing all of this to put him in a good mood before she drops the bomb, he’s sure of it.

_Surprise, I’m pregnant!_

He doubts she’ll say it like that, of course; Tess probably has it all planned out, a speech and everything about how she knows this is a shock—it won’t be—and that he can take all the time he needs to process the news.

The longer he sits with her the more his mind wanders and that's never been a good thing, especially when there's something he's fixated on. He’s quiet throughout the last half of their meal and she, unsurprisingly, notices.

“Is it that bad?” she asks. Her voice knocks him from his spell.

“What?”

“The chicken, is it that bad?” she repeats, bringing a forkful to her mouth. “I know it’s not great or anything, but I think it came out pretty good.”

Scott shakes his head, reaches over and lays his hand atop hers. “No, T, it’s amazing. Seriously—the best thing you’ve ever made.” It’s not a lie, because while her poached eggs are incredible this is a new level for her. “Sorry, I’m just…”

She’s thoughtful, waiting him out, but he doesn’t have anything else to say. If he opens his mouth again he’s going to word vomit all over her, about his memory lapses and their night together and the pregnancy test and the baby, and he’s not sure if he’s more terrified to steal her thunder or to say it all out loud.

So, instead, he offers a small smile and makes a show of cutting a large portion of chicken to shove into his mouth.

“See? Perfect,” he says around the bite, his smile widening at the genuine, proud grin it pulls from her.

He thinks that, that look right there, is always worth it. It releases something inside him every time, eases his nerves and sends a warmth to settle throughout his veins.

Scott watches as she fidgets once they're comfortably relocated onto the couch, open palms running along her thighs. She looks nervous and that kind of solidifies it in his mind, that yes, this is the moment she’s going to tell him.

It fills him with anticipation and equally as much dread.

“Whatever it is—you can tell me, Tess, you know that,” he says, breaking the silence so she doesn’t have to. Reaching over, he rests his palm between her shoulder blades.

“I’m being silly, and you’re probably going to think it’s ridiculous,” Tessa tells him, turning in his direction. “I just don’t want you to be upset.”

“I won’t.” It’s immediate and he means it because hell, it’s his fault too. Takes two to tango, right? Generally both participants remember the tango, but you know. Details. “I promise.”

She looks down for a minute and takes a breath. “I can’t go with you to the premiere of Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom anymore.”

“You—what?”

“You promised you wouldn’t get mad,” she reminds lightly and yeah… he’s not mad, he’s confused. How does he keep getting this so wrong? “I’m sorry, I know how much you were looking forward to it and I know we’ve had it planned for _months_ ; I promise I’ll come with you to another showing. Jordan’s coming to visit and apparently she already made reservations for some spa that weekend because she knows how exhausted I’ve been lately, so I can’t really say no.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say at first, just remains silent until her brief look of concern, like he’s  _actually_  mad, frees him from the haze.

“That’s fine, Tess.” 

In truth, in the aftermath of the Olympics and the whirlwind of the past week he’d completely forgotten that they had planned to go together on the Friday the movie’s released. 

As much as he loves romantic comedies (and no, he’s not ashamed to admit it) Jurassic Park is a classic. They always joke that it’s more his scene than hers, but he knows she secretly—or not so secretly, because it’s so obvious to him—loves it. He remembers showing it to Tessa maybe a year after they partnered together. At just eight years old, she hid behind her hands and unconsciously curled into his side every time a dinosaur jumped onto the screen. 

"I’m not scared,” she’d said afterwards when he teased her about how tightly she was gripping his arm. She nearly tore it off with the force with which she’d ripped her hand away. 

When the third film came out he’d joked about her reaction to the first and Tessa being Tessa crossed her arms and demanded they see it so she could prove that she wasn’t scared; she was just seven years old last time and now she’s older. So, twelve year old Tessa sat with him on his couch to watch the second one first (with less flinching than the first film), and then they saw the newest release in theaters.

It became a tradition of sorts, and he still thinks she pretended to jump that time just so she could grab onto his hand. 

(He’ll never tell her that, though.)

“Go have fun with Jordan,” he says. “Take the weekend and relax, you deserve it.”

She releases a breath and smiles, inching herself closer until she’s able to slot herself against his side. “I mean it, too. If we can squeeze it in before we fly over to Japan for Fantasy on Ice then we’ll go. If you want to see it again of course.”

Scott shakes his head, looping an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll wait to see it with you.”

“You don’t have to do that. You should go see it.”

“Wouldn’t be nearly as exciting without you beside me to jump at every surprise dinosaur appearance,” he muses easily. 

“Hey, I’ve gotten better over the years,” she laughs. “Seriously, if you don’t mind waiting...”

“I’ll always wait for you.”

Tessa’s breath stutters the smallest, most marginal bit beneath him for a second before she relaxes again against his chest.

“Okay,” she says, her voice soft. Quiet.

She really is something else, he thinks fondly as he holds her close. She did all of this, dinner and a movie, just to tell him she can’t go to Jurassic World with him like they’d planned. 

What the hell is she going to do when she finally tells him about the pregnancy? Write it in the clouds with a jet?

Content with the fact that he’s getting nowhere on that front tonight, he simply allows himself to enjoy being with her. It’s not hard; if he’s being honest he’d spend all of his time with her, if he didn’t think she’d get sick of his constant presence immediately. 

And if his hand slips a little further down her torso, settling on her lower abdomen as the movie plays in front of them, then so be it.

Brain: 2  
Scott: .5

He's giving himself half a point because the night's not all bad when it ends with Tessa in his arms.

* * *

Saturday night, after stewing in all the ways he could’ve possibly avoided any and all of the heart-racing situations he’s found himself in over the past week and ultimately coming up empty—because yeah, he  _could’ve_ just remained cool and not jumped to conclusions, but this is Tessa and his brain doesn’t always think straight when it comes to her. 

He’s working on it, he just... needs to work a little more.

Once he comes to terms with that, he thinks, it’ll be smooth sailing. Maybe he should like, stock up on some kind of stress-relief tea in the meantime though. 

When his phone buzzes on his coffee table, Scott leans forward and swipes it from the glass. It’s a text from Tessa, and the smile that curls at the corners of his mouth is immediate. 

_Is it weird that I miss you?_

They haven’t seen each other since their meet at Tessa’s Thursday, both deciding that they should take the weekend to recharge. Their schedule is going to get insanely busy soon enough and they won't have much time to just rest.

It’s only been two days but it feels like a hell of a lot longer. 

 _Miss you too, kiddo_ , he sends back. He keeps his phone on his lap, only barely paying attention to whatever movie has started in the lapse between The Goonies ending and his mind-spiral beginning. 

Her reply comes a moment later. _Lunch tomorrow?_

He should wait a minute, at least make it seem like he was not waiting with his fingers already poised on the keyboard, but he’s tapping away seconds later. So what if he was waiting with her text thread open for her to respond and so what if her asking to get lunch tomorrow when they’ll see each other bright and early Monday morning makes his stomach twist in the most pleasant way? 

 _Of course! Pick the time and place and I’ll be there_.

She picks a brunch cafe not too far from their apartments and tells him to meet there around 10:30. 

Tessa sends another text a few minutes later and he really needs to get a grip, but a wide grin blooms across his face. 

 _Night, Scott_. There’s a scrunchy-faced smiley right after it, its cheeks pink in a blush, and he sucks in a breath. They don’t send each other goodnight texts, haven’t since they were teenagers and up until the wee hours of the morning in their respective rooms, unable to sleep the night before a competition. 

He sends her a goodnight back, even adds an emoji of his own (a smiley with the zzz’s above its head, because it seems appropriate), and then leans back against the couch cushion, lighter than he’s felt in days.

Brain: 2  
Scott: 1.5

(Though he thinks this definitely feels worth at least 5.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a broken record at this point, but thank you all :') If you noticed the chapter count went from 8 to 9, it's because of this one. I couldn't get the scene of her calling him about a spider out of my head and everything else just kind of... happened? Hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> And the next chapter should lead up to/set up the conversation we're all anticipating (finally, _whew_ ), so thanks for indulging my need to make our boy sweat it out for a bit first!


	6. Chapter 6

Apart from a few more internal anxiety attacks and the occasional lingering stare, Scott’s managed to maintain a semblance of normalcy. This is, of course, after a week of over-analyzing Tessa’s every move and overreacting, so you win some you lose some, he supposes. 

But he’s allowing himself to relax, slowly, because he realizes if he doesn't at least  _try_  then he's not going to survive. Once it begins to work, he’s able to fall back into a routine with her. He’s still Scott and she’s still Tessa and it’s almost as if he never found that box, as if nothing out of the ordinary is occurring. If it wasn't for the way he still tends to her more than he usually does or the careful way he handles her on the ice (because okay, he’s no longer freaking out about little things that could be related but more than likely  _aren’t_ , as he's been learning the hard way, but that doesn’t mean he’ll tone down the gentleness), he can almost forget he did.

He’s decided, so he doesn’t run himself into the ground trying to put together clues and pick up on any more maybe-signs, he’s going to put it out of his mind (truly attempt to, at least) and let Tessa come to him when she’s ready. 

When Tessa does come to him he’s not sure if it’d be better to pretend that it’s news to him—he pictures something along the lines of that one Friends episode where Ross tells Phoebe and Joey that Rachel’s pregnant with his baby and Phoebe just blurts out  _that is brand new information!_ —or to just tell her that he’s known all along, that he accidentally figured it out on his own and was waiting for her to make the first move.

Like most things he puts off to the last minute because he’s too stressed out to deal with them, that’ll be a bridge he crosses when the time comes.

Around three o’clock his phone vibrates beside him on the couch. Peeling his eyes away from the television, he peers at the screen.

Tessa.

_What time are you heading over?_

He grabs the phone, unlocks it, and stares at the text. Did they have something to do? He's positive there's no practice today and he doesn’t remember the two of them making any other plans.

_Where?_

Three bubbles pop up immediately and then:  _the bar, Scott._

Wracking his brain, he tries to come up with something but… nope, crickets. He’s no stranger to bars—he indulges in a healthier, more controlled manner now than he did four years ago, though—but he has no recollection of planning a night out. 

Scott wants to know why it seems like he  _should_  know, if her texts are any indication. 

His phone buzzes in his hands a few minutes after he fails to reply, Tessa’s smiling face lighting up the screen. He can’t help the warmth that spreads through his system every time she calls, prompting that picture to show up. It’s one of his favorites, a candid he took of her laughing in practice not too long after they announced their comeback.

“We’re meeting Kaitlyn, Andrew and Chiddy,” she says by way of greeting, and—what? “We decided that we’d all meet up a few months after the Olympics, remember? To… I don’t actually remember why, probably to catch up, but we did, so now we have to.” 

Okay. So it appears drunk post-win Scott knew about this bar meet-up. Unfortunately for him, drunk Scott failed to inform sober Scott.

“Ah,” he manages. With his free hand he reaches for the remote, mutes the tv. “So we’re going?”

“We said we would,” Tessa says, which he knows means that she’d rather stay in and avoid the social aspect that comes with bars but feels obligated to go out because they promised their friends. “It’ll be nice. We haven’t seen them in a while.”

It’s true; their lives have been such a whirlwind since they’ve been home that there’s been virtually no time for all their schedules to line up. 

Shrugging into his couch cushion, he licks his lips. “Okay. If you want to go, T, we’ll go. We can even make it an early night so you can get back to whatever book it is I’m sure you’re in the middle of.”

He can hear her smirk through the line. “Night by Eli Weisel. And thank you.”

It doesn’t even occur to him that one might go without the other. They’re a package deal.

“I’ll swing by and we can go together?” she says then.

His mouth curls into a smile. “Yeah, of course.”

* * *

It hits him an hour and a half later when he’s still rooted on his couch, the game back on the screen in front of him, that he never got any actual details from Tess. He doesn’t know what bar, what time, or when she’s showing up at his apartment.

He guesses since she’s coming over so they can go together it doesn’t  _really_  matter if he knows the bar or time, but it would’ve made sense to at least ask.

It’s just before five now.

Looking down at his current attire, he debates changing into something else. His jeans are fine, as is his old Moir Skate Shop t-shirt, but maybe it’s all too casual. He figures he should put some effort into it, at least change into a shirt that isn’t fading and fraying a little at the seams and jeans that don’t have a bleach stain near the ankle.

Yeah, actually, neither of these are fine.

In his bedroom he pulls out a more appropriate shirt, drapes it across his bed, and then pulls out a pair of “nice” jeans. He doesn’t know what makes them nice, but this is the pair that Tessa always tells him are his  _fancy jeans_ , whatever that means. There’s nothing fancy about them; they’re jeans. But she deems them his best pair, and so he steps out of the ones he’s wearing.

Shirt donned, he moves to grab at the jeans when there’s a knock. With a small smile, Scott paces quickly into the living room and swings the door opens for who he knows will be Tessa. The greeting dies on his tongue when he sees her though, all long limbs and stunning makeup. Her hair's curled and styled, tucked behind her ear on one side.

She’s not even wearing anything out of the ordinary, she’s not  _dressed up_ , but for some reason he can’t stop staring.

Gaze sliding down, he admires the sleek lines of her body, hugged perfectly by the dark wash skinny jeans and tight white t-shirt she’s wearing beneath her leather jacket. He's not sure what he expected her to show up in, a simple pair of baggy jeans (she’s told him a thousand times they’re called “boyfriend jeans” but he refuses to call them that because they’re  _jeans_ and they do not belong to any boyfriend) and a Canada shirt, maybe, but this is... not that. 

The emerald green of her necklace brings out her eyes, really pops against her pale complexion, and he has to resist the urge to run his hands over the expanse of exposed skin near her collarbone.

"You gonna let me in?"

He doesn't notice the slight rasp of her voice or the slight flush creeping up her neck.

"Right, yeah, sorry," he says, immediately stepping back and pushing the door open for her. "You look good, T."

Smiling, she lowers her head. "Thank you. You look... fairly under dressed."

The teasing lilt confuses him for a moment until he remembers—oh no, he  _didn’t_. He follows her line of sight and looks down, finds himself... yeah, yup, he absolutely did. Absolutely walked out of his bedroom in his red and black plaid shirt and his maple leaf boxers because he heard her knock.

Jesus.

"I was going for a statement," he says confidently, shooting her a grin.

Tessa nods, and this time he  _does_ notice the blush in her cheeks. "It'd certainly be a statement."

"Maybe they're not ready for this." Scott heaves out a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I'll just go put on my  _fancy jeans_."

The palm on his forearm warms his skin. "Probably for the best," she says, playing along with a solemn nod. There’s a brightness in her eyes when he mentions the jeans though, and it overwhelms him with a silly amount of joy. He still doesn’t know what makes them fancy, but he’ll wear them to every applicable outing if it puts that look on her face. "You're just too far ahead of your time, Scott."

* * *

The bar is verging on packed, buzzing with people and  _so_  loud, but they manage to spot the others in booth near the back. Their friends stand and greet them with hugs, shouting pleasantries just to be heard above the televisions playing in the background.

This place is never usually so jammed, typically just locals and a laid-back vibe, but then he remembers that there are a few games on tonight and it makes more sense.

Andrew and Kaitlyn sit on one side of the booth and Chiddy slides back into the other, Tessa and Scott following. It’s clear their friends have been here for longer than they let on when Kaitlyn starts giggling at nothing and Chiddy slouches down to playfully knee her under the table.

“I was just going to get us another round,” Andrew says as he stands, eyes flitting between the two of them. “What can I get you?”

“Just beer,” Scott says, thanking him.

“Tess?”

Scott’s head turns to her as she thinks about it, and this is—it didn’t even register before. They’re in a  _bar_. He's done such a good job of putting it all out of his mind as of late that it didn't even raise any flags before now. He's one part thrilled, proud even, that he's managed to chill out _that_ much and one part terrified. 

“Gin and tonic?” Andrew nods to confirm, and Tessa calls needlessly after him even though he’s already halfway to the bar. “Thanks, Andrew!”

It’s fine; it's to keep up appearances, that's all. It’d be suspicious to be in a bar and not order a drink when the entire purpose of their meeting in a bar was to hang out and have a drink with their friends. 

Andrew returns with their drinks, three assorted bottles of beer cradled in the crook of his elbow and the girls’ drinks—Tessa’s gin and tonic and Kaitlyn’s tequila sunrise—balanced oh so delicately in the other arm. They all (poorly) stifle laughter as he tries desperately to walk the final few feet to the booth without spilling or dropping anything, and Scott finally puts him out of his misery, grabbing the beers so Andrew can stabilize the others.

“Could you walk any slower, Poje?” Chiddy teases from the corner.

Andrew levels him with a look. “You can get the next round then,” he says, sitting back into the booth beside Kaitlyn, sliding his beer away from Scott. “Try to be a nice guy and get nothing in return.”

Kaitlyn chuckles, wrapping a hand around his neck. “I appreciate it,” she says sweetly, a little tipsy.

“Me too, Andrew,” Tessa adds, swirling her drink around with the little straw. “Thank you.”

Scott’s attention for most of the succeeding conversation remains on Tessa, though he does his best to stay engaged. He chimes in here and there, makes an effort to enjoy himself and ease the rigidness of his body before Tessa has a chance to pick up on it with her close proximity. After fifteen minutes of there being no signs of her drinking the gin and tonic, it works. He hunches over a little, takes a swig of his beer, and begins to relax.

He somehow gets pulled into a debate about whose room at the Olypmics was the dirtiest because it absolutely wasn’t his and Chiddy’s, but Andrew begs to differ.

“You guys had clothes everywhere,” he argues. “Tess, tell him.”

Scott’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. Andrew knows Tessa was in his room? But wait, no—no, it happened in Tessa’s room. He must be talking about something else, about Tessa just, in general, having been in the room for any period of time.

Tessa doesn’t even bat an eye though, which allows him to soften. “I don’t know, Andrew, it was pretty clean when I was in there.”

“Ha!” Chiddy howls, slapping Tessa on the back. “ _Thank_  you. Next drink’s on me, Tess. For your service.”

Scott blanches because even though Tessa’s laughing, the sound light and airy and like music to his ears, she reaches for the glass. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching over and grabbing it out from in front of her and bringing it to his own lips, taking a huge gulp. The gin is rough as too much of it slides down his throat at once.

Tessa’s blinking, mouth slightly agape as she looks at him. He puts the glass down in front of him.

“I wanted to try it,” he rasps. It’s the first thing that comes to mind but it’s weak and he knows it.

Brows furrowed, she gives him a look.  _What’s up with you?_  

“You don’t  _like_ gin and tonic,” she muses with a huff, a hint of suspicion there. Stretching across, her chest presses up against his shoulder as she aims to take her drink back. “If you wanted to double check—you know, to make sure you still hate the taste of gin, you could’ve just asked. I’m happy to share.”

Andrew and Chiddy are talking, musing about something or other with Kaitlyn laughing along, but Scott doesn’t hear much of it. Tess makes a witty comment about something and he tries to tune back in.

Fingers still wrapped around her drink, it remains safely on the surface of the table while they talk. His nerves heighten every time her hands move which is  _ridiculous_  and he knows it looks as such, his own knuckles whiting out around the neck of his beer bottle.

After a few more minutes, Tessa lifts the glass and looks teasingly in his direction. “Did you want to try it again or am I good?” 

She doesn’t wait for a response because it’s a  _joke_ , and then she’s bringing it to her lips and Scott does the only thing he can think of—he, stupidly, oh so stupidly, takes it out of her hand again. Some of the liquid sloshes over the edges and spills onto her jeans. He knows it’s the wrong thing to do the second he does it, knows it's the act of a man with a death wish, but it’s pure impulse. 

“ _Scott_ ,” she hisses, eyes immediately dropping to where she’s been damped. “I was  _kidding_.”

“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Gin drips onto his fingers, makes them sticky.

She shakes her head, confused. “What are you talking about?” Eyeing the half-empty glass still clutched in his thieving hands, she gestures towards it. “Scott, give me my drink.”

Blowing out a slow breath, he swallows. “No.”

“I’m sorry, no?”

He’s thankful for the fact that his friends are already a few drinks in, farther gone than either of them, because they don’t seem to notice the turn in mood on this side of the booth. If they do, they have impeccable poker faces and should try their hand at the casino. 

He wishes he was just as blissfully unaware and not at all a part of this conversation. Tessa's looking at him with those eyes, giving him that look she gets when she’s angry, actually upset (which is _rare_ ), and it’s not a good place to be. The worst, actually. 

Screw a town with dozens of frozen yogurt shops and demons in human suits, _this_ is the Bad Place. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Tessa laughs, the sound neither bitter nor amused and it's how he can't categorize her emotion right now that's almost scarier than the situation itself. “It’s one drink. I’m not going to get trashed off a single gin and tonic—I’m a big girl.”

She may be a grown woman, completely capable of taking care of herself, but it's not just about her anymore and he doesn't get why she isn't seeing it. He doesn’t know the most about pregnancy, he’ll admit that, but he’s positive that alcohol is bad. Like, top of the Absolutely Not list that every pregnant woman gets at the beginning kind of bad.

Reaching over, she tries one last time to take the drink and he acts immediately, downs the rest of it and then hands her the empty glass. He winces, because gin really is the worst and his throat burns.

He lets out a rough cough as it slides down the wrong pipe.

“What the hell are you  _doing?_ ” she spits in a whisper.

His eyes are a little wild, his voice hoarse. “What am  _I_  doing? What are  _you_  doing, Tess?”

“I’m trying to enjoy the night out with my friends, which is what we both agreed to do,” she grinds out, eyes flicking towards the others. Kaitlyn’s quieted down; her attention is half on them, subtly, but the boys are still engrossed in whatever it is they’re talking about. “What’s wrong with you today?”

Shaking his head, he clears his throat. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“No, there’s definitely something going on. You’ve been acting funny for over a week.”

Frustrated, Scott mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like  _and you’ve been acting too normal for over a week_  but it’s nearly inaudible under the noise of the bar. Tessa’s still regarding him strangely, more than a hint of irritation behind her eyes, and he wants to know why the hell she’s upset. 

Okay, so he did just steal her drink and spill it all over her jeans and he’ll apologize for that later, but he’s just trying to keep her— _them_ —safe. She’s smarter than this, so what the hell’s her deal?

His heart flutters a bit because she _is_ smarter than this. This isn't at all like Tessa, being so reckless with something so serious, and for a split second there's doubt. Has he been reading into things? Well, yeah, but not to this extent, right? He couldn't have gotten it all so wrong, he _couldn't_ have. There's too much that adds up for it all to be a coincidence, right?

Yeah, he decides; besides, he's come this far and he's already yanked Tessa's drink from her grasp twice tonight, so he blinks that fleeting moment away and focuses on the present.

His silence sends her over the edge and she nudges at his shoulder, tries to push her way past him and out of the booth. “Alright, I don’t know what’s gotten into you and we’ll talk about it later, but I’m going to get another drink.”

When he doesn’t move, she shoves harder and it’s clear she’s not exactly aiming for gentle. 

“Scott, seriously. Move.”

Just before she has a chance to physically push him from the booth and onto his ass, which he doesn’t put past her right now, he reaches out and puts a stalling hand on her shoulder. Desperate eyes searching hers, he pleads with her to understand.

“I know,” he rushes out, maintaining eye contact. “I  _know_.”

But she just stares back, frustration fading into confusion right before him and  _god_  this is absolutely not what he wants to do.

“You know  _what?_ ” she sighs, exasperated, one hand landing on his thigh. Scott doesn’t say anything and Tessa shakes her head, lips pulled into a thin line. “Fine. Get up, I’m leaving.” 

His heart hammers in his chest, the thumping almost in time with the chanting of the bar-goers as someone in whatever game’s playing scores a goal. Unsure of what else to do, Scott obeys and slides from the booth. He allows her to follow suit, but he grabs onto her arm before she can go too far.

“Tess, don’t—”  _Don’t leave, don’t be mad, don’t hate me for doing what I had to, don’t shut me out_. He has no idea which he wants to say. He opts for none, instead lamely muttering, “I drove.” 

“I’ll walk.” 

“Don’t...” he starts again, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t what?” she asks, irritation flaring. “You seem to be oddly preoccupied with my drinking habits tonight, concerned even, but if I remember correctly  _I_  wasn’t the one with a problem.”

She’s only saying it because she’s upset, doesn’t mean it as a jab or to poke at old wounds, but shit if that still doesn’t hurt.

“So tell me, Scott, don’t _what?_ ” Her arms fall limply at her sides. “You can tell me what’s got you so worked up right now or I can go to the bar, down a shot, and walk myself home.”

Everything bubbles up all at once, every emotion from the past week and a half, every ounce of anxiety he’s felt and every fearful moment he’s spent trying to keep Tessa out of harms way, and something inside him snaps.

“I know about the baby,” he rushes out, the words coming so quickly, jumbled in one breath, that it sounds like one long word and not a sentence at all. The crowd’s chanting at the same time and for a split second it feels almost as if it’s for him. An appropriately timed cheer to celebrate him finally fucking saying it, for loosening the tie keeping that weight pressed on his chest.

It’s both a relief and absolutely terrifying to have said it out loud, allowing it to burst from the cage where it was living in his body, this secret between the two of them that only he was privy to.

Her forehead creases, brows down-turned as she stares back at him. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and then she’s turning to the rest of the table—who have all since stopped talking and are now staring at them and  _fuck_  did they hear him? That's just what he needs.

Scott can feel the blood rushing in his ears.

“We actually have to get going,” she tells them with a too-bright smile. Leaning over, she gives Chiddy a hug and then, once she’s shoved Scott out of the way and rounded the other side, does the same with Kaitlyn and Andrew. “I'm sorry. We’ll figure something else out soon, okay?”

Their friends nod easily, tight, confused smiles on their face as they say goodbye.

Scott leads the way out, Tessa’s palm burning a hole in the back of his shirt between his shoulder blades. Leaning forward, she whispers in his ear. “I’m driving.”

The ten minute drive from the bar to Tessa’s apartment is filled with a charged silence. She asks him the second they get in the car, "do you want to start here or at the apartment?", her tone... oddly soft. There's only the tiniest remnant of anger present, mixed with what appears to be... curiosity? He can practically see the wheels turning, like she's trying to figure something out, and that's not even remotely what he expected.

He’s still reeling; the car feels small all of a sudden and he's not sure he'd even be able to construct a coherent sentence right now, so he opts for the apartment.

Even so, Scott opens his mouth more than once to say something but each time he comes up short, completely at a loss. Tessa seems... he can’t place it. Confused is still the primary detection, which confuses  _him_ , but since she no longer looks like she wants to skin him alive he keeps his mouth shut.

Watching her from the corner of his eyes, he thinks the grip she has on the steering wheel’s got to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gettin' there, folks! Thank you all for your continued kindness xx
> 
> The bar scene was loosely inspired by that one, very brief scene at the party in While You Were Sleeping. If you've seen it you'll know the one :)


	7. Chapter 7

He’s never been good with silence. Not in the company of other people, at least. 

(Tessa remains both an exception and the case in point.)

It unsettles him, the vast expanse of space that could be filled but instead remains empty. He's not sure what it is; maybe it's everything his own mind supplies to fill in the blanks, the thoughts kept caged in that never see the light of day, or maybe it's the weight of what everyone else could be thinking and not saying out loud.

Probably both, but the main takeaway here is: Scott's never dealt particularly well with silence. 

As a kid faced with prolonged silences, he’d start talking, didn't matter what about; if no one else's, he'd hear his own voice. He’d crack jokes or ask questions or rattle off facts about things that no one, himself included most of the time, cared about.

(One time, back when they were just settling into life in Canton, they were out to lunch with their respective host families. It was still awkward, everyone still getting to know each other and working to find things to talk about without it coming off forced.

When it all got too much, Scott started humming. Softly at first, then louder, until he was high-pitched singing nonsense right there in the middle of the restaurant. It garnered him some looks, but it served its purpose; at least there was something to talk about now.

Tessa kicked his shin under the table, stifling a laugh even as she looked mildly horrified.)

Enter Tessa being both an exception and the case in point. There are only two kinds of silences between he and Tess: (1) comfortable silences, where the two of them soak in each other’s presence and simply enjoy the company, no exchange of words needed; and (2) charged silences, brought on by anger, heated fights, or high levels of discomfort.

Right now, settled uncomfortably on the side of door number two, Scott's dying to fix it. 

In what's probably the first smart thing he's done all night, his desire to claw his way out of this silence is overpowered by the rightful conclusion that now is decidedly _not_ the time to rattle off facts about clouds that he's retained from school or offer up a shitty joke. 

Instead, Scott rolls his shoulders against the padded seat, trying to dislodge some of the tension. When he looks over at Tessa as they pull into the parking lot of her apartment building, her forehead is creased, bottom lip pinned between her teeth.

Despite it all, she looks adorable. This probably isn’t what he should be thinking right now, not by a long shot, but he can't help it. He always finds her behind the wheel of his car to be cute. This is the first time she’s full on commandeered it, so that’s different. 

(He won't pretend her breath hot on his skin when she'd whispered _I'm driving_ into his ear doesn't factor into this equation, though _cute_  wasn't the principal word running through his mind at that precise moment.)

Following her up the stairs, he can feel the electricity coursing through his veins. It's like little shocks, each one egging him on, pushing him forward. _Say something, say something, say something_. He needs to be the one to speak first because he's not sure he'll maintain his nerve if she starts.

Scott just wants her to hear him out, at the very least, and then she'll understand. Maybe. Hopefully. She has to, right?

It’s with this shred of hope in mind and the tiny jolts of energy that have him turning to face her as soon as they're inside, door closed behind them with a soft click.

To his surprise (and utter horror, really) she beats him to it. “Don’t,” she says, her voice clipped. She’s holding up a hand and  _oh_ , the anger’s back. It's all over her face, like it had time to fester and grow with each passing second on the car ride over.

Maybe he should’ve opted to begin this talk on the drive, to quell the build-up if nothing else.

He didn’t think of this possibility.

“What the  _hell_ was that, Scott?” Tessa stands tall in front of him. She alternates between casting expectant glances at him (and if he wasn’t terrified by the tone of her voice he’d probably speak, but he can do nothing but have the grace to look sheepish and remain silent) and staring at a spot on the far wall. “We go out for a night with our friends and you pull... whatever that fiasco was? Policing my alcohol intake like I'm a _child?_  "

She paces a little now, and Scott's eyes follow her movements.

"I’m a grown woman," she continues, her voice firm, and he nods along automatically. She's not looking at him. "I can make my own choices, and even _if_ that meant getting trashed, it's not your place to decide otherwise. Snatching my drink away from me like that? Seriously? I don’t appreciate that, especially not in front of our  _friends_.”

Taking a breath, Tessa huffs. “I mean, everything wrong with what you did aside, what kind of message do you think that gives them?” It’s rhetorical and he doesn’t dare answer. This is precisely why he wanted to go first. “That I have some kind of hidden drinking problem or something, which," she laughs, a touch of four year old bitterness lingering in the small exhale, "as you should be well aware, I don’t.”

When her silence drags out, one minute and then two, Scott deems it safe. He finally reacts, clearing his throat. “Tess, I...” 

What to say first? He wasn't expecting all of _that_ , to be fair. He gets why she's angry, he does, because he shouldn't have gone about it all the way he had, but he has _good reason_. As good a reason as any; she has to know that.

“What?”

Her eyes meet his, imploring.

There’s a slump in her shoulders, reminiscent of the exhaustion that’s presented itself during every other fight of theirs. (He doesn't classify this as a _fight_ , not really, just a... miscommunication, of sorts.)

He wants to reach out, pull her into a hug and hold her until she relaxes.

"I'm sorry." It’s as good a place to begin as any, he figures, and he watches her eyes widen just a bit. She wasn’t expecting an apology and he’s not sure what to do with that, what that says about how he’s reacted in all of their past arguments, so he ignores it. 

Scott takes a step forward; she doesn't back away and he takes that as a positive sign. "I shouldn't have acted like I did. I know, and I'm sorry. About that... and about your jeans."

They both look down at the same time, eyes on the light stain the drink left, and he could (almost) laugh. It doesn’t look as bad now as it did in the bar, not in this lighting at least, so he  _hopes_ once it’s totally dry it’ll be barely noticeable.

"I put you on the spot and I shouldn't have, okay? I didn't mean to," he says honestly, reaching up to clutch both of her hands in his. God, he _really_ didn’t mean to. "I got worried and I reacted when I should've let you explain."

" _Me_ explain? I... worried about  _what?_ "

"It's okay," he assures her. Lifting his head, he catches her gaze. "It'll  _be_ okay, I promise."

Her fingers grip tighter at his shaking hands, calm and soothing in a gesture that’s likely second-nature to her instead of a conscious thing. He can hear the thrumming of his heart, pulsing, and he’s almost convinced that if he were to look down right now he’d be able to see it beating right out of his chest.

Tessa lets out a tiny, nervous breath. “Okay...”

Scott smiles, soft and gentle. “Sorry, kiddo, I just...” He laughs a little, anxiety expelling with each breath he takes. It's finally here, this moment he's been anticipating and equally not at all ready for. “I want you to know that I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you and I’m not going anywhere.”

Tessa blinks, nodding slowly as she gathers her thoughts. “I never thought you were, Scott. Where’s this coming from? Did something happen?” 

Delicately, he releases her hands and moves them to her waist. Her breath catches and when he slides his fingers beneath the leather jacket to rest on her lower abdomen, palms splayed across the flat plain of her stomach, he feels her muscles react.

“I know you probably had your reasons for not telling me and that’s okay, you know, because I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling,” he tells her, charging on while he has the momentum. “But I need you to know you won’t be alone in this. Ever. I know it wasn’t planned and I know we’re not—we’re just  _us_ , but just us has been pretty great so far, right? I love you, T, and whatever you need, just let me know, alright, and it’s done. Even if it’s just midnight food—”

“Scott.”

“Seriously, Tess, I mean it, I’m  _in_  this—”

" _Scott_ ," she repeats. Her voice is so firm it actually stops him mid-sentence, has him blinking up at her. (He didn’t realize he was speaking to her torso this entire time, thumbs grazing over her shirt in slow, circular motions.)

She’s wearing an odd expression on her face but it’s... at the very least, the anger appears to have dissipated. 

One second, two, and he watches in real time as a light-bulb goes off and she looks all too much like she’s finally put together some grand mystery. Tessa gives a small smile then, slow and a little awed-looking. 

“I know about the baby,” she says quietly, so softly Scott knows it’s meant only for herself. She’s not looking at him but at the hardwood beneath her feet, shaking her head. When she looks up, her eyes search his face. “That’s what you said.”

Scott blinks. “What?”

“In the bar. Before we left, after we got out of the booth, that’s what you said.”

“Yeah, Tess, I... you know that.”

Tessa shakes her head. “I couldn’t hear you in there,” she says. She didn’t even  _hear_ him? He finally released this secret and unburdened himself of tons of weight and she didn’t  _hear_ him? Lovely. “You were being so weird and looked so panicked, so... scared, almost, that I knew for _whatever_ reason we had to get out of there. I tried to read your lips but couldn’t figure it out until...”

Her gaze trails down, landing on where his hands are still placed. In other words, she's saying, now it all makes sense.

Scott runs a hand through his hair. “Oh,” he breathes. “I didn’t—that’s fine, because now you know I know, and you know I wasn’t  _trying_ to be an asshole tonight, right? And that’s the main thing, that I know, so you don’t have to hide anything anymore. Now we can finally work through this together and—”

"Scott, stop, please,” she says emphatically, cutting him off. One hand lands on his shoulder, her expression soft as she stares at him. “I’m sorry. I’m not... Scott, I’m not pregnant.”

His face falls immediately, mouth open. “Oh.” 

Oh god. It’s already done, she already...

That’s why she didn’t say anything, because she never— _shit_. His chest shatters not unlike broken glass, the shards splintering around his ribs, painful even as he tries to hide it. He told himself he’d be on her team no matter what, even if this was her decision, and he’s standing by that. 

But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, and _god_ , does it hurt.

“I uh—okay.”

He takes one of his hands back, the other still mounted on her hip, grounding him. Slowly shrugging out from under her palm, he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Okay,” he says again, taking a deep breath. When he finally looks back up at her, he forces a smile. If it falls a little short (and he knows it does), he’s sure she understands. “That’s fine, Tess. That’s totally your decision and I um... maybe I should just go?”

She notices the change in his body language, of course she does, and she’s immediately shaking her head, gripping at his forearm so he's unable to stalk past her and make a clean break for the door. 

“Hey, no,” she says, and he reluctantly allows her to guide him towards the couch. “Sit down.”

He does, mostly because she leaves no room for objection, but he’s shaking his head as she settles in beside him. “T, really, it’s  _okay_ ,” he assures her, even if it feels very not okay deep in his gut. “It’s your body—”

“I was never pregnant.”

Wide, shocked eyes fly to hers. 

“What?” His entire face scrunches in confusion because no, no that can't be right. “Tess, I found the pregnancy test in your bathroom.”

Her brows skyrocket into her hairline.

“I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear. I saw the box when I was getting the toothpaste the other night, from beneath the cabinet, and curiosity got the better of me. Killed the cat, you know? So I pulled it out and I... I had  _no_  idea, I promise.”

Tessa nods thoughtfully. "Did you even check insidethe box? Look at the test?"

“It wasn’t in there! Of course I looked inside,” he says then, his voice an octave higher than intended. “And I figured that, you know, you would just throw away a negative test but maybe you’d take the positive one to show someone so...”

“So no test meant I was pregnant,” she concludes with a tiny shake of her head. “Scott... the test  _was_  positive, but—”

“You just said—”

“But it wasn’t mine,” she finishes, leveling him with a look.  _See what happens when you interrupt?_

His mouth opens, poised to speak, before it closes. "Oh," he breathes, a quiet sound.

It’s like that’s the only thing he can say anymore.

“This piece of information doesn't leave this apartment because it's still early and no one's supposed to know yet, but it was Jordan's. She didn’t want to take it at her apartment because she didn't want her boyfriend to know about it if there was nothing  _to_  know. And she just wanted me to be her company when she found out,” she explains, her hand a warm weight on his knee. “She must’ve taken the test with her; I didn’t know.”

“Wow, that's—that's amazing news, I'm really happy for Jordan.” Slumping against the back of the couch, the stress and uncertainty of the past week and a half settles over him like a blanket. And then he laughs, loud and just a touch ridiculous, because what other response is there? “Shit, T, I’m sorry. I saw it and I thought...”

“I get it,” she says softly. “I don’t approve of your methodology, like, at all, but I get it. You found it in my bathroom, in my trash; of course you’d assume it’s mine. I mean, you could’ve just talked to me first instead of going all insane and ripping my drink from my hand,  _twice_ , but...”

Her voice is light now, a hint of teasing, and it allows some of the remaining knots in his chest to loosen.

Scott winces, huffing out a breath. “Yeah, fuck, add that to the list of things I’m sorry about,” he murmurs. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his thigh, head cradled sideways in his palms as he peers at her from beneath his bangs. “So uh, I guess we were a hell of a lot more careful in Pyeongchang than I thought, eh?”

He’s going for a joke, his mind still reeling, the confusion and adrenaline melding but slowly allowing his heart to return to a normal pace. And then Tessa’s eyebrows do that confused twitching thing again and something sinks in his stomach. Oh no.

"What?"

No, no, no.

This is the exact thing he was terrified of happening. Those memories, those choppy filmstrips of images burned into the back of his mind that started this damn thing—he used Tessa's supposed pregnancy to validate them, but now there’s no pregnancy, there never  _was_  a pregnancy, and she’s looking at him like he’s suddenly morphed into the three headed dog from Harry Potter so this means... what, exactly?

Whatever it is, he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

"We uh," he starts, clearing his throat, "after the award ceremony, right? We had some drinks with the rest of the team and we went back to your room..."

His confidence wavers with each passing second, each word sounding more and more like a question and less like a statement, and he'd very much like the floor to open up and swallow him whole please.

"Scott," she says, gently tilting his chin so he's forced to look at her. She’s regarding him so carefully, face so open and understanding and  _god_  that almost makes it worse. "We didn't sleep together. Do you remember that night?"

The same flashes replay in his head; their lips crashing together, her palms cradling his face, but now he doesn't know what to make of them.

So, no, it would appear that he truly doesn’t remember a damn thing about that night.

"I guess not," he mutters with a small grunt.

"We did have a few drinks, or more than a few in your case, and then we  _did_ go back to my room.” Okay, so he got one thing right. "There was... things got kind of heated for a bit,” she admits.

Scott’s voice is rough when he speaks, like rocks scraping against each other. “Heated?”

“We kissed... made out for a little, yeah, but that’s as far as we went."

That one image, the one that undoes him more than the rest, of Tessa’s hands splayed across his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, floods back. His hands on her waist, her mouth soft on his. 

It didn’t end how he thought, but it  _happened_. (Score.) Not false at all; just incomplete. 

"Ah,” he drags out slowly, processing.  _Made out for a little_. That implies longer than the maybe 3 seconds he remembers. He decides in this moment that he's never drinking again. “How come you didn’t say anything the next morning?”

Tessa shrugs. “You didn’t say anything either. You weren’t making it a big deal so I figured, hey, we’re both adults, we’ll focus on the win right now and talk about it when we’re ready.”

He laughs, loud and disbelieving. “All those years of coaching in communication and what does it get us?” he jests, covering his face with his hands. It’s even funnier (read: tragically funny, in a way that's so _not_ funny it's hilarious) because Tessa’s ‘talk about it when we’re ready’ reasoning, using the past as precedent, most certainly would’ve meant they never spoke of it again. “So I didn’t hallucinate the kiss.”

"No,” she chuckles, only just avoiding a roll of her eyes. “But I couldn't... I wasn’t nearly as drunk as you, and I knew we couldn't make that jump when you’d been drinking, even if you did try to convince me you were totally fine." He’s listening, he really is, but all he hears is that she stopped them from going any further because he was drunk, not because she didn't want it as much as he did, and his heart speeds right back up for an entirely different reason. "Which was  _clearly_ the right decision on my part. Seriously, Scott."

Wincing a little, he nods. "Fair enough," he manages. "Okay, so, what did happen? After the making out, since I remember that part. Mostly."

A tinge of pink rises in her chest, colors her cheeks, and he wants so badly to kiss his way up the column of her neck.

Now isn't the time.

(He hopes, with this newfound information, there _will_ be a time.)

"I walked you back to your room; which, let me tell you, was not as easy as you'd think. I put a bottle of water and some ibuprofen on the table next to the bed and then wrestled to get you under the blankets. You don't remember that at all?"

Scott shakes his head. It does explain why he remembers being in Tessa’s room but then he woke up in his own, though. He knewshewas the one to leave him the pills and water—no way was that his own handiwork.

"No," he says, sitting up straighter. "I mean, some of it, I guess. I was just missing some... critical pieces.” Pausing, he closes his eyes and rubs at them with the heel of his palm. “Wow. I'm—sorry, Tess. I know I’ve said it and I’ll probably say it a million more times but... Now I _really_ feel like an ass for stealing your drink tonight."

“And spilling.”

He grimaces. “And spilling.”

Tessa laughs and he feels lighter. "You thought you were looking out for our uh, non-baby," she muses, voice scraping a little around the statement. She recovers quickly, leans over to nudge his shoulder with her own. "It was very sweet of you. Misguided, but sweet. If I was actually pregnant, I'd appreciate the gesture."

"If you were actually pregnant you wouldn't have been drinking in the first place."

Lifting one shoulder, she chuckles. "That's true. You could handle it _differently_ , but I'd still appreciate you looking out for me, though," she says. Her voice lowers, and she adds softly, "I always do, you know."

Lips curling into a soft smile, he reaches out and squeezes her hand. "I know, kiddo."

After a moment, he stands from his spot on the couch and paces into her kitchen, rummages around (quite loudly) in her fridge.

"Ha!"

He returns with two glasses of wine in his hands and Tessa laughs again, a boisterous sound that hits him like a breath of fresh air. She shakes her head but beams at him around a smirk.

"To make up for the theft of your gin and tonic," he says as he hands over the glass, taking a seat beside her once more. “Which  _is_ still disgusting, by the way.”

" _Thank_ you." She clinks her glass with his. “You do realize that was the lamest excuse, right?”

"I know."

"You've hated gin ever since that party in Canton."

"I know."

"You told me you would rather, and I quote, _gnaw off your own arm_ than drink gin again."

Scott groans. “Give me some credit, okay, I was thinking on my feet!” 

Tessa merely grins, leans into his side as usual, and his arm wraps easily around her back to hold her close. They spend the rest of the evening watching a few old movies that he’s previously vetoed relentlessly (because it seems like the  _least_ he can do right now) and drinking more wine to make up for earlier. They’ve already decided that he’ll spend the night, because of the wine and all, and then they’ll go back to pick up her car from his place in the morning. 

Behind the smile Scott shoots her every time he catches her peering up at him, he can't seem to get rid of the tiny pang of sadness lodged somewhere deep in his chest; an ache that makes no real sense to him, an ache that has no right to but exists nonetheless.

He hasn’t truly let himself acknowledge it, but he was really starting to get used to the idea. The image was etching itself a little more clearly each day, a little girl with an inquisitive smile, long brown hair, and the same bright green eyes that have had him captivated since he was nine years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I hope you guys enjoyed The Conversation™ and are as excited as I am about where they'll go from here. Also, kudos to everyone who guessed it right ;)
> 
> Thank you all so much for your continued kindness, it makes me embarrassingly happy.


	8. Chapter 8

With his tragically embarrassing misunderstanding behind them, Scott’s relieved to finally be able to return to normal. Real normal, that is, because what he was parading around as normal before was anything but. 

Bubbling beneath this resumed routine, however, is a strong desire to delve into that other tidbit of information Tessa had released. The one where she admitted that she had stopped their night together not because she wanted to or because she thought it was a terrible idea, but because he was too drunk and she didn’t want their crossing of that line to be when he wouldn’t remember a damn thing.

The thing is, he doesn’t want it to be too soon, doesn’t want it to just be something he says casually at the end of a practice.  _So, you actually wanted to sleep with me?_

The last thing he wants to do is put her on the spot; he’s already done that once in the past 24 hours and he really doesn’t want to go two for two. But she  _is_ the one who brought it up in the first place, offered it up on her own, and if this fiasco has taught him anything it’s that he needs to just talk to her. 

So, with that in mind, he resolves to let the dust settle and then just do it, just talk to her about it. It shouldn’t be hard; contrary to what the past week and a half may lead one to believe, they can actually have important conversations like the grown adults they are.

“I woke up to a text from Kaitlyn this morning,” she tells him the morning after The Conversation. They’re skating laps around the edge of the rink and she turns to him, an expression on her face he can’t quite place.

“Oh?”

Tessa hums. “Mhm. She asked me if there was anything I needed; if there was something I wanted to tell her.”

“Oh no,” he groans, tossing his head back. “She heard.”

“I don’t know if she  _heard_ so much as was able to read lips better than I was, but yes,” she confirms. “I just wrote back  _I’m not pregnant_  and she congratulated me.”

Scott looks over and finds her face scarily blank, but after a few seconds the corners of her eyes begin to crinkle and the beginnings of a smile form on her lips. Oh thank god, she’s not mad. 

_Good_.

“I uh—I guess that means Chiddy and Andrew know too.” 

Nodding, Tessa agrees. “Yeah, probably. But I’m sure Kaitlyn’s told Andrew by now that I’m not pregnant and Andrew’s told Chiddy, so it’s likely made the rounds.”

“I’m sorry, Tess. Really, I never meant for any of that to happen. It definitely wasn’t my plan to just blurt it out in front of them.”

She shrugs, a silent  _it’s fine_  in the gesture, but he knows it’s not fine. Tessa’s always been the more private of the two and yeah—it’s better that it happened in front of their friends and not complete strangers who would then go post about what they overheard, but it’s still not ideal.

“They know I’m not pregnant; now they just probably think we slept together. Par for the course, right?” Yeah, maybe, but it doesn’t make him feel any better about it. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just get back to it, okay?”

The tone of her voice, despite how she fights to keep it light and unaffected, tells him it absolutely does matter. 

Something’s off and he doesn’t think it’s simply the fact that their friends overheard (or deciphered, whatever the case may be) their conversation, but he doesn’t have a chance to respond before she’s loosening her grip on his hand and skating ahead, picking up speed until she’s on the other side of the rink.

* * *

The following morning they meet up an hour earlier than usual. Japan’s Stars on Ice is only a few weeks away and as much as he’d like to take a break, he knows that’ll only derail their schedules. 

Tessa shows up on time but, much like yesterday, something’s not quite right.

She’s uncharacteristically quiet and her body language is completely twisted, tight and closed off where it’s usually more unreserved. Completely in her head, she’s falling out of patterns he knows she can do in her sleep, tripping up on moves they’ve had nailed for weeks, and he has no idea what to do.

At least last time it was  _him_ ; he knew exactly why he was so wrapped up and unfocused, but this is Tessa. If anything, she’s on her game even when she’s off.

After an hour of the silent treatment and an avoidance of eye contact, he pulls her to the side. “Tess, if you’re still mad at me I  _get_  it, I deserve it, but at least tell me what I can do.”

She actually looks surprised. “I’m not—I was never  _mad_.”

“Tell that to your face,” he says with a small chuckle. She blinks at him. “You haven’t said more than two words this morning, kiddo. It’s like pulling teeth just to get you to look at me.”

Dropping her hands to her side, she exhales. Her eyes are still trained on the ice below her feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

He’s torn between being thrilled that she’s not mad at him, even if he’s still a little upset at himself, and being concerned because it’s obvious that she’s keeping something bottled up.

"All right, if you’re sure. Everything okay, then?"

A tight smile on her face, she nods. It's too quick and she only looks up at him a few seconds later, like an afterthought. "Yeah. Good."

She's not good, but she's grabbing his hand and pulling him into a step sequence before he can press further.

There’s not a step out of turn for the rest of practice.

* * *

Even after he points it out, she doesn't say much to him as they skate through their routine. It’s nothing more than a little back and forth, that is, until a few hours later—and roughly 44 hours following The Conversation... not that he’s counting—when she's bursting into his apartment.

He nearly flies off of the couch with the surprise of it all. His front door unlocks and springs open so quickly, which is pretty horrifying when you have absolutely no plans for a visitor. Scott’s head whips up just in time to see Tessa strolling in like a woman on a mission. 

It doesn't even occur to him that'd it be her and not a wild intruder; that she's the only other person who has a key completely escapes him until he's sitting there in shock, blinking up at her.

"Tess?"

She's panting, one hand braced on her hip, and he wonders briefly if she  _ran_ here.

"Why did you do it?" Her eyes never leave his and while he's thrilled she's actually speaking to him, he doesn't have a single clue what she's talking about.

"Is that what today was about?" he asks instead. "If I did something else I'll apologize, but I kind of have to know what it is, T."

Tessa shakes her head. "When you thought I was pregnant."

"What? I found the box to the test, you know that."

" _No_ ," she sighs, running a hand through her hair. It's messy and falling out of the bun she's so carefully constructed on the top of her head. "Why did you say you would be there? Why—why did you tell me I wouldn't be alone, or that it'd all be okay? You said that you were  _in this_ , the pregnancy, and I want to know why.”

Mouth hanging open, Scott stares wide-eyed at his partner. For one of the first times in as long as they’ve known each other, he’s completely speechless.

"Did you tell me all of that because you thought you got me pregnant and it was the right thing to do, or because it was true?"

_Oh_. That nearly knocks the wind out of him, catches him so off guard he feels slightly sick.

There's no correct answer.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Really, there is. There's the answer rooted in absolute truth that may just unravel their partnership as it is now and ruin the relationship they've so delicately crafted over twenty years, and then there's the answer that's untrue, so painfully false, that would salvage them in the long run but cut a little (a lot) deeper in the process.

He doesn't know what she's looking for.

Tessa's always been the cool one; cool-headed, calm when it mattered most, rational. But here she is, eyes just short of wild as she stands in his living room, the expression on her face lacking the careful control she's long perfected.

"Come here," he diverts, slowly lifting himself from his seat and inching towards her, slowly, as if any quick movements might startle her. Placing a hand on her forearm, he gently tugs until she lets him guide her towards the couch. “Sit down, Tess. Take a breath.”

Exhaling, Tessa doubles over until her face is hidden in her thighs. Scott reaches over, having taken a seat beside her, and rubs circles on her back.

She lets out a laugh and lifts her head. "I couldn't stop... thinking about it," she says softly, shaking her head. "It was funny at first, how that small misunderstanding led to such chaos for you without me even realizing. It’s still funny, don’t get me wrong, because  _really_ Scott, but the more I thought about it the quicker it became something... more. Deeper than just  _funny_."

"Okay,” is all he says, voice gentle as he waits her out.

"You were so  _sweet_ about it."

"I'm sorry?" A confused chuckle breaks free. "Should I have been angry? Yelling?”

Shaking her head, she lets out a low groan, frustration boiling over. "No," she says. Her nose twitches seconds later, face scrunching. "Maybe, I don't know! You were so accepting of it, Scott. We’re not even—and you were so  _adamant_ that I wasn't alone, that this baby would be cared for and that we'd have each other."

"I mean, yeah, of course. That's not even a question. We’ve always had each other, that’s never going to change,” he says. “I wasn't going to leave you alone. I  _wouldn't_. I know I've had my moments over the years, some really shitty moments at that, but god, Tess, did you really think I'd just walk away if you were having my kid? That’d you’d tell me you’re pregnant and I’d just leave, tell you  _well, kiddo, you’re on your own_?"

"Of course not," she says immediately, eyes flying to his. "That's not what I'm—you’re a good man, Scott, a  _wonderful_  man who will always try to do right by everyone. That’s why I need to know if you said that because you thought I was pregnant or because you really wanted to do that with me."

_Or because you really wanted to do that with me_.

Do that— _that_  being the whole baby thing, that meaning staying by her side and dealing with everything that pregnancy entails; morning sickness, late night craving runs, raising an actual, living baby together.

(A baby that would be the perfect blend of the two of them; one that would hopefully get his very best qualities and all of Tessa’s. 

A baby whose face still shows itself when he lays down to sleep; his dark brown hair, gorgeous green eyes, and maybe the same singular dimple Tess has, the one on her left cheek that only makes an appearance when she smiles so wide it nearly splits her face in two.

Just the thought of it sets his skin on fire, the warmth buzzing, palpable.) 

She’s really asking him this, as if being with her in every aspect hasn’t been everything he’s wanted for the past few years. Probably even longer, if he's finally being honest with himself. Maybe the baby thing hasn’t been on his radar that long, not until he thought it was already happening, but he wants that too. Someday. 

As if he hasn’t longed to be able to hold her and touch her like they do in their programs but for real, no acting, no cameras, and no pretenses: just them.

"Because it's fine if you were just trying to be chivalrous, you know," she continues with false nonchalance. It occurs to him that he's remained silent for a beat too long and now she's avoiding eye contact, fiddling anxiously with the hem of her shirt.

Thoughts of crossing the line they've been toeing for a while aside—though maybe that's already been done, bulldozed right through in her room in Pyeongchang—he can't do this anymore. Scott can't sit here and allow her to believe everything he said, everything he offered, was just him being  _polite_.

"Tessa, look at me,” he says, tipping her chin with his index finger. “Everything I said? I said because I meant it.”

“Yeah?”

Her voice is so quiet, breaking around the single syllable, and he leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. Keeping his hands braced on her shoulders, he coaxes her gaze away from his chin and upwards.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I love you, T, and not just as friends or ice dance partners. I  _love you_. I’m  _in_  love with you. Thinking I had accidentally gotten you pregnant was terrifying, you have no idea how terrifying, but beneath all the panic I knew it’d be okay for no other reason than because it was  _you._ ”

“Oh,” she manages, a breathy little exhale around a budding smile. “Scott, I...”

“It’s okay. I just needed you to know that I wasn’t just trying to do the right thing. I was so accepting of it because it was you, Tess, because it’s us and we’ve always been inevitable on some level, right?”

Swiping discreetly beneath her eyes, Tessa chews on her bottom lip.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He squeezes her shoulders and then moves to stand, to go into the kitchen and get them both a glass of water or maybe some tea, but her arm flies out to stop him.

“Wait, no,” she says, fingers gripped tightly around his wrist. She holds onto him even once he halts, as if he’ll disappear should she let go. Slowly, he sits back down, worried for a moment until he catches the curl of her lips. “ _You don’t have to say anything_? Seriously? You can’t possibly think I’m not in love with you too.”

His grin splits his face, wide and unabashed. “Yeah?” he asks, deliberately echoing her response to him.

“I’ve known I loved you since I was sixteen,” she admits with a playful roll of her glassy eyes, a little bashful. “Known I was in love with you since I was twenty two and you left a bucket of rice on my front porch.”

* * *

Later, when they’re both somehow sprawled comfortably on his small couch, his fingers draw lazy circles along her forearm. He feels positively alight with a boyish giddiness, high on her; her smell, the feel of her body slotted perfectly against his, the joyful spark in her eyes when she looks up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Is that why you were so... uncharacteristically careful with me?” she asks all of a sudden, twisting her head to find his eyes. Scott’s lying half behind her, half beneath her, with her body draped across him.

“Hm?”  

“Last week,” she clarifies. She looks away then, fixes her gaze on the ceiling.

“I’m always gentle with you.”

“I said  _uncharacteristically_ ,” she reiterates. “During practice. It was turned up a notch. Or twelve. You were touching me like I’d break if you held on too tightly, but then you had a death grip during all of the lifts.”

“You noticed that?”

Tessa chuckles, wriggles a bit to get more comfortable and he has to stifle a gasp. “Of course I noticed. I just figured you were having an off day.”

Humming, Scott nods against her. “Yeah. I was so hyper-aware of there being another element to protect,” he says. “I was terrified I’d be too focused on the baby and drop you. That’s why I wanted to stop.”

“You’d never drop me.”

She says it without missing a beat, no hesitation and no doubt in her mind. Her confidence in him is awe-inspiring and the gravity of the honor, of the responsibility that leaves him with, is not lost on him.

“No, I won’t.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulls her tighter against him. “I still can’t believe me being  _nice_  to you is what set you off,” he muses.

She gives him a playful jab of her elbow into his chest, and he groans. “Hey. It did not  _set me off_ ; I’m not a ticking time bomb.”

“You came barging into my apartment, T,” he reminds with a bark of amused laughter. “Like, actually barged in. I thought you were a murderer.”

Tessa huffs. “You did  _not_.”

“I was thirty seconds away from letting out a scream that would rival any of those horror movie girls,” he argues, tickling at her side when she snorts. She swats at his arm, squirms so much that she nearly falls off the couch until he pulls her back. “Remember that movie Accepted?” Tess hums her assent. “The scene when the body falls from the ceiling and Jonah Hill lets out the most high pitched, girlish scream?”

She cackles then, covering her mouth as soon as the sound escapes. But he loves it, gently pulls her hand away and kisses her palm.

“That was almost me.”

“Okay, maybe I was a little...  _impulsive_ ,” she concedes, a sheepish grin plastered on her face. “It felt like if I sat in my apartment any longer, just stewing in my own uncertainty, I’d go insane.”

Scott murmurs lowly into her ear. “I’m glad you were impulsive.”

The look she gives him has his insides doing somersaults; her eyes search his face, trail from his lips up to his eyes, and the softness of it all threatens to undo him. She’s been unraveling him for years, slowly tugging on the strings of his heart and his sanity like balls of yarn, and she’s finally reached the center, only one last knotted thread holding everything together.

If he’s not careful, she’ll have it undone by morning.

(He thinks it’s what he’s hoping for.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this up Friday, but when I say the past week has been rough that's kind of the biggest understatement. But here we are, finally. Thank you all xx 
> 
> And huge thanks to Carol for lookin' over this one for me, you're the real mvp.


	9. Chapter 9

Scott wakes in the middle of the night, pulled from sleep by the sounds of clinking glasses from his upstairs neighbors. Huffing out a muted groan, he flips over and makes a wide sweep of his arm. He expects it to drape over Tessa’s sleeping form, but instead it connects with the mattress and his eyes fly open. 

He squints, trying to let his vision adjust in the darkness, and a quick glance at the bedside table tells him it’s just after four in the morning. It’s the middle of the night and he’s alone in his bed.

It’s like the worst feeling of déjà vu, waking up alone after being so positive that he spent the night with Tessa. 

Her scent lingers on his sheets and he didn’t have a drop of alcohol last night, so he  _knows_ she stayed over. After she fell asleep on him on the couch, nose buried in the crook of his neck, he had suggested that she spend the night. He even offered to crash in the living room and let her have the bed to herself, but she refused.

“I want to be close,” she had told him, a new kind of shyness behind her eyes that he was quick to erase with an easy agreement and a kiss to her temple.  

They fell asleep entangled in each other like so many times before; during competitions, in either of their families’ basements, in their own apartments on more than a few occasions. He can’t count the number of times they’ve slept, sharing a bed or a couch or a space. Add in each time they’ve collapsed tiredly onto their couches, the millions of times they’ve fallen asleep on a plane with their heads resting on one another’s and hands clasped together, and that one time in the car after a party in Canton. 

The list is endless.

So, no, last night wasn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed, but her head resting on his chest, her arm crossed gently over his torso and his grip tight in the fabric of an old Canada t-shirt he’d given her to wear, it all felt different.

It was the quickest drift into sleep he thinks he’s ever experienced, barring all of those exhaustion-fueled nights throughout the years.

Scott dreamt of her, too. 

He’s no stranger to dreams of Tessa; he’s had them for as long as he can remember, and with the exception of a few months in his teenage years before he really understood how to navigate their partnership with the new realizations about how his body  _reacted_  to Tessa, they’ve always been PG.

(Okay, maybe a lot of them weren’t dreams  _of_ Tessa, instead dreams in which Tessa appeared, but he still counts them. 

There was no logical reason for her to show up in a dream about a haunted house growing legs and chasing him through the streets of some rural town in Oklahoma, and yet there she was, just sitting on the front steps as if nothing was wrong and that house hadn't just uprooted itself. (Yes, he does block out that particular dream at every possible turn, thank you very much.) So the fact that she just keeps showing up in these nonsense dreams has to mean something else, right?

He thinks so.

His consciousness doesn't just insert other people from his life into random dream scenarios. It's not like he sees his mother in the frozen foods aisle, staring at him with a bag of broccoli in hand.)

Weird dreams aside, the ones that make no linear sense are his favorite. They have no plot, no sense of direction or pattern; they're just images of her, Tessa’s bright green eyes glittering in the sun, or a deep, guttural laugh breaking free from behind a wide smile. It’s her hands on his face and trailing down to grip at the hairs at the back of his neck as they skate, all of her trust in him as he lifts her from the ice.

(Yeah, those he  _knows_ mean something.)

Sighing, he sits up and rubs at his eyes. Just as he’s beginning to wonder what happened, where in their interactions last night he could’ve misinterpreted what she’d said, the soft clatter of ceramic sounds again. As he continues to wake, the noise doesn’t seem as distant now as it did before, and he realizes it’s not his upstairs neighbor at all.

Padding out of his bedroom and through his apartment, his heart lifts at the sight before him.

Tessa’s standing in his kitchen, a mug in her hand—with a spoon still placed inside, which he targets as the source of the muted clanking—and her silhouette illuminated by the dull orange hue from a street lamp outside. The shirt he’d given her last night falls just past her behind, and a pair of his plain black boxers reside on her hips, peeking out from beneath the hem.

“Hey.” She’s leaning against his table, her profile in view, and he speaks quietly so as not to startle her. His voice is still raspy with sleep.

Tessa spins around, a soft smile playing on her lips when she spots him. “Hi,” she whispers, curling the mug closer to her chest. Glancing down at it and then back to him, she shrugs. “I was in the mood for tea. I found some in your cabinet, I hope that’s okay.”

He doesn’t ask her why she was _in the mood for tea_  at nearly 4:30 in the morning. Tessa doesn’t gravitate towards tea, not when coffee’s also an option; there’s always been a neutral indifference in that she’ll drink it if it’s offered but she won’t generally choose it for herself.

Then again, he figures the fact that it's the middle of the night probably factored into the decaffeinated choice.

“Of course,” he says as he sidles up beside her. Everything’s different in the cover of night and a part of him is scared that if he touches her she’ll drift away, reveal all of this to be another dream. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shakes her head. “I slept better than I have in days, actually. You make a good pillow.”

Scott grins. “I’ve been working on my chest-to-pillow qualities, so thank you for noticing,” he says. Replaying it in his mind, he's quick to backtrack. “Not with anyone. No one else has been—”

A finger lifts to his lips, blissfully halting his awkward (and highly unnecessary) explanation. “I know,” she smiles, slowly lowering her hand. Tessa looks straight ahead. “It’d be okay if you were, though, you know. We weren’t... anything.”

“Tess, we’ve never been  _nothing_.”

“No, I know.” She shakes her head, tries to get the words right. “But we weren’t  _something_  either. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have had someone over, using you as a pillow.”

“And now?”

She peers at him from the corner of her eye for a moment and then looks down at her tea. It must be cold by now, he thinks idly. “And now what?” she murmurs quietly.

She knows exactly what, but he can sense the uncertainty radiating from her skin. He hopes it’s simply about speaking it out into the open, into the stillness of the early morning where it’s all much louder, and not about  _them_.

Changing course, he aims to make it a little simpler. “Do you want me to date other people?” he asks instead.

Tessa’s quick to shake her head, a definitive  _no_ falling from her lips. 

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” 

Hopeful eyes regard him from beneath her messy hair, rogue tendrils falling into her face.

Scott reaches over and steals one of her hands; she curls her fingers around his thumb like she used to on the ice, connecting the two of them in the most simple of ways. “Yeah, kiddo.”

"Me either," she says softly, and he slides his hand up to squeeze her forearm. 

He watches as she brings the mug to her lips then, takes a sip, and wrinkles her nose in a grimace. Laughing, he gently takes it from her fingers and gestures towards the Keurig. “I’ll make you another one.”

“No, that’s okay. I should try to get back to sleep anyway.”

Scott nods and instead places the mug in the sink. “Back to bed?” Holding out his hand, he doesn’t release the breath caught in his throat until she gives a small nod, places her hand in his.

It seems like something so inconsequential when he thinks about everything they’ve accomplished together, but this—holding her hand, feeling the warmth generated from her palm—has always been one of his favorite parts of their relationship. They’re so small in his, swallowed by the size of his palms, yet it’s a perfect fit.

Scott pulls back the comforter for her and waits until she slips in before he rounds the bed and slides into the other side. It’s still a little surreal, crawling into his sheets with Tessa, having her shimmy over to close the gap between the two of them and entangle her legs with his.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he hisses, squirming away. “Your feet are freezing.”

She only curls in closer, muffling a chuckle against his chest. “Your legs are warm. They’re warming my feet already, see?” 

See he does  _not_  as she presses the sole of her foot to his shin. It’s still as cold as it was five seconds ago, still feels like she’s pressing an actual foot-shaped ice cube against his skin as some form of punishment.

Leaning his head down, he takes a deep breath and mumbles against the crown of her head, “Socks, T, you need  _socks_.”

Her only response is a bemused chortle in the back of her throat before she burrows deeper into his side. His hand lays a weight on her back, his thumb brushing back and forth against her shoulder blade until he hears her breathing even out.

As he allows himself to drift back off to sleep, cuddled with his best friend of twenty years and maybe (possibly, hopefully, pretty certainly, right?) girlfriend, Scott can’t help but think—this? 

This is better than any of those dreams.

* * *

Scott wakes again around 9:00; sunlight peeking through the cracks in his blinds, it casts a stream of light onto his sheets and the waves of black hair peeking out of them. Tessa’s still sleeping soundly, her cheek resting over his heart and breaths coming out in soft puffs.

Shifting to get more comfortable while trying not to disturb her, he lets his head lull against the pillows, a smile pulling at his lips that he can’t even begin to suppress. He’s more than content to stay here for as long as it takes for her to wake up; they have ice time at noon but there’s plenty of time before then to relax and soak up every second of this morning.

Absentmindedly, Scott begins combing his fingers through her hair, caressing her scalp as he does. Tessa begins to stir not too long after, her legs stretching into the mattress as she lets out an adorable, sleepy moan.

“Morning,” he murmurs quietly when her eyes begin to flutter open, fingers still threaded in her hair.

Tessa sighs, turns her head, and blinks up at him for a few seconds before a lazy smile greets him. “Mm, morning,” she says, hands fisting in his t-shirt at his shoulder. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not too long.”

“Liar,” she huffs. “Staring at people while they sleep is creepy.”

Though she goes for serious her eyes betray her, as does the pesky little smirk he manages to coax out of her simply by shooting her a dopey grin.  _God_  they really are ridiculous, aren’t they?

They’re the kind of quasi-couple everybody hates for being so goddamn  _cute_.

But when Tessa stretches up and presses a hesitant kiss to his collarbone before burying her blushing cheeks in his neck, he finds that he doesn’t care.

* * *

They eventually do drag themselves out of bed, Scott makes them both a small breakfast while Tessa jumps in the shower, and they make it to the rink only five minutes late.

(Tessa pokes fun at the re-emergence of poached eggs and he divulges, albeit reluctantly after she absolutely won’t take no for an answer, why he winced when she brought up  _that_  breakfast.

“I forgot that I read that a lot of pregnant women can’t stomach eggs, you know, the smell or whatever, and I was terrified I was going to make you sick.”

He appreciates how she attempts to curtail her grin, though she fails miserably, her hand reaching across the table to cover his.

“Aw, you thought I was about to throw up in the kitchen,” she says, and she doesn’t have to be so  _amused_  by it, he thinks.

Scott shakes his head. “No— _no_ , I was afraid you would throw up in the kitchen and then I’d have made you physically sick, okay? There’s a difference.”

She grabs his hand while she tells him it’s sweet and nothing to be embarrassed by, and then she goes back to her eggs.)

If Marie-France and Patch notice something different they don’t say anything. They haven’t skated since before Tessa barreled through his front door like a hurricane and the difference is night and day, so he finds it hard to believe they  _don’t_ notice.

It’s like they’ve experienced the calm before the storm, the actual storm, and now they’re in the recovery period; the core of what was remains but the scenery has changed. It’s both the same and completely new, walking familiar roads with a whole new perspective. 

Neither is inherently better or worse, just different.

Their lifts go off without a hitch, Scott’s hands finding purchase on her body as easily as ever, and he’d even go so far as to argue they’ve never been more in sync.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Tessa asks, a little breathless as they take off their skates. His brow quirks in askance and she huffs out an anxious laugh. “Not—I just mean, we should probably talk.”

If he hadn’t just spent the entire morning with her, sleepy and content in his bed, those words would send him into a rising panic. Instead, he just knows that she’s right.

They’ve never loved going to counseling, but if there’s anything they’ve learned over the years, and tried to regularly implement into their daily lives so as to keep this partnership going, it’s that communication is key. 

(Of course, when they were first told this, he’d scoffed because  _obviously_  they need to communicate and  _what kind of quack therapist is this, T?_  but as it turns out teenage Scott, early twenties Scott, and hell, thirty year old Scott just last week, was shit at communicating.)

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Order in? We’ll have to eat at some point.”

“Pizza?”

He almost laughs at her playful grin and the batting of her eyelashes. “Did Tessa ‘No We Can’t Have That, Scott, We’re In Training’ Virtue just request  _pizza?_ ”

She shrugs. “We’re not training.” He blinks, trails his gaze slowly around the room.  _What’s this, kiddo?_  “For the Olympics,” she amends with a roll of her eyes, as if that distinction has ever been made before. 

“Of course, of course,” he chuckles, bumping her shoulder with his. “Pizza it is. Half pepperoni, half spinach and feta?”

Tessa looks at him like remembering her most recent pizza preference is the sweetest thing he’s ever done, and he wonders if she doesn’t know he’s been memorizing every piece of her for twenty years.

(The ever-changing coffee order still trips him up, but he's getting there.)

* * *

That evening, after they’ve eaten their weight in pizza (for which they’ll undoubtedly do an extra hour in the gym, but it’s totally worth it) and they’re both pleasantly warmed by the wine Scott found in the back of her fridge, they find themselves sitting on the couch. She’s angled in the corner and facing him where he sits, on the middle cushion with his left leg curled beneath his body.

His right foot stretches out, toes squishing into the plush carpeting beneath her coffee table.

“I’m not really sure where to go from here,” she admits quietly, bottom lip pinned between her teeth.

“Okay, then let’s... revisit what we do know, yeah? Get all the facts so we’re on the same page.”

Marginally hesitant but still accepting, Tessa nods.

“We won the Olympics. Again.”

He grins as he says it, still giddy even months later, and her smile grows to match.

“I drank too much and couldn’t remember what we did or did not do the night of our win, found a pregnancy test—”

“A box.”

“—a  _box_ , yes, okay—in your bathroom trash can and thought that I had gotten you pregnant.” That morning seems so far away, so distant even though it’s been barely any time at all. “I... freaked out, yeah, I’ll admit it, that was _not_ my finest moment. I eventually blurted it out and you looked at me like I was losing my mind. How am I doing so far?”

Tessa chuckles, looking less uncomfortable as he recounts his own misguided actions. She lets her legs loosen, no longer curled protectively to her chest.

Good.

“Pretty good,” she muses.

“Where was I? Oh, right. We did not actually sleep together, and you were never pregnant.” He pauses then, wanting to pick his words carefully. “We didn't sleep together because I was drunk, not because the desire wasn’t there.”

Her breath hitches a little, her chest rising, but she manages a nod.

“If I wasn’t drunk, we likely would have slept together.” He’s pushing a little more, he knows, and he keeps his gaze on her.

It’s not a fact, but he... he wants to know.

Tessa chuckles, a nervous little sound. “I—I don’t know. I guess we never really will,” she says, and he thinks that’s it, that’s her entire answer, but then she continues, softer now, “but if I had to guess, then I... yes. Probably. And it would’ve been a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We didn’t—we only got here, to where we are right now, because of every sequence of events that happened as it is. Who knows what would’ve happened if we had sex before we talked, if we had just fallen into bed in the aftermath of our win?” She pauses to take a deep breath, but then her eyes are locked on his. “Scott, we’re only here talking right now because you thought you knocked me up and then I thought you only said all of those things  _because_  you thought you knocked me up. It’s weird and it’s the craziest way I’ve ever heard of two people coming to their senses, but here we are. This is us.”

He understands what she’s saying, but... “Do you really think we wouldn’t be here right now if we slept together that night?”

“Think about it—do you really think we would have talked after that? Properly talked, not just danced around the topic until it, inevitably, happened again and we still never talked. Rinse and repeat.”

“Inevitably?” he echoes, a pleased smirk on his face even as she slaps at his knee, rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath about him being incorrigible. The word grits out from behind the ghost of a smile, though, and that’s what he focuses on.

“Don’t let it go to your head. We’ve been amazing at everything else we've done; why would sex be any different?”

And  _oh_ , if that doesn’t do something to every single part of his body. The confidence and nonchalance with which she says it nearly kills him.

“More facts?” he diverges, his voice a mere rasp. Tessa smirks this time, pleased, but nods. “You love me.”

Her face softens when she speaks, a confirmation and a declaration in one. “I love you.”

“And I’m in love with you.”

Tessa clears her throat. “So I’ve been told.”

“Better believe it, kiddo.”

Dropping the game, he leans forward, eyes on hers for signs that she wants him to stop. He finds none, and in a moment she’s bracketing his face in her palms and he’s cradling the back of her skull in his hands and his lips are slanting over hers. She tastes like red wine and coming home, and he knows it’s not the first time they’ve kissed, not even the second or third, but it feels like a new kind of first.

The first of many kisses that  _mean_  something, something more than comfort or competition.

“So,” he starts, forehead resting against hers, “I’m not drunk.”

“You’re not.”

“And neither are you.”

Tessa hums. “That would appear to also be true.”

“What do you say, should we go put your hypothesis to the test?” he asks, his heart hammering in his chest with each passing second that she remains silent beneath him. One hand’s braced on the arm of the couch to keep him from crushing her, the other settled on her cheek. She leans into his touch like a cat seeking affection. “Only if you want to, I don’t want to rush—”

Tessa cuts him short by pressing her lips against his again, her hand gripping at his shirt and pulling the collar down. “Yes.”

His entire body soars as he pulls back just long enough to meet her eyes. “We can’t uncross this line. I won’t be able to... I don’t want anything less than all of you, T.”

“Then take me.”

It’s her spunky little smirk and the unwavering confidence staring back at him that proves to be his undoing. It’s all he needs to pick her up from the couch, deftly carrying her through her apartment and to the bedroom, her contagious giggling wafting behind them.

Halfway through the hallway, he stops suddenly. Tessa huffs, gives him a confused stare. "What?"

"So, is it safe to say we're in a relationship now? Like, romantically, not platonic business partners." 

She gives him a sweet, almost _too_ sweet, smile and pulls herself up, leaning in to bite at his ear while her fingers card through the short hairs at the base of his neck. Her breath is hot against his skin when she whispers, "does this answer your question?" 

Scott coughs, rasps out a pitiful _yeah, yup, all clear_ , and quickly resumes his path to her bedroom. If his footsteps hasten when she continues to bite at the soft skin beneath his ear, well, who can blame him? 

* * *

Sated and utterly content in each other’s arms afterwards, his palm remains splayed comfortably across her bare back. He eyes all of the freckles peppered across her skin, clustered around her shoulders, and wants nothing more than to trace his fingers along every single one; he's always found them adorable, even when she didn't.

Tessa peers up at him from where she’s wrapped around his torso, eyes clear and so filled with an adoration he can only assume is mirrored in his own. 

He’s not sure he’s ever loved her more.

“Hypothesis accepted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end, kids! Whew. I've loved writing this and sharing it with you guys, so above all I have to say thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, or left comments for making this such an enjoyable experience :') 
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed the ride as much as I have! Until next time xx


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